Linger
by gaelicspirit
Summary: An explosion removes his identity, puts him in the hands of a stranger, and forces him to fight his way back from darkness. If everything he knows is taken away, who can he trust? Who is he, really? And what if he doesn't want to remember?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Thanks to Kripke for the loan.

**Spoilers:** Set during Season 2, sometime after_ Hunted._

a/n: I was recently on a week-long family "vacation" with four children—including my 12-month-old. I had a moment where my mind escaped (because it was the only part of me that could), and as has been the case since last October, it fled into our world of the Winchesters. Soon after returning home, I stayed up until the wee hours one night and wrote this. The story is complete, and I'll be posting it in three sections this week (because I highly doubt anyone wanted to wade through the whole thing in one sitting…).

Thanks go out to those wonderful souls who have offered me confidence and assurance by checking my thinking and sanity with this one when I got it done. And Kelly, I always appreciate your efforts, even if I go back through and mess around with it after you've beta'd.

I hope you enjoy.

Linger

_No matter how long we exist, we have our memories. Points in time which time itself cannot erase. Suffering may distort my backward glances, but even to suffering, some memories will yield nothing of their beauty or their splendor. Rather they remain as hard as gems._

_-- Anne Rice__"Blood and Gold"_

www

He could smell fire.

It clung to him, wrapped around him, burned him. Something was moving him backwards. He tried to pull in air, relieve the ache in his chest, the pressure in his lungs. He felt himself gasp weakly, his body full of smoke, his lungs no longer willing to do the one act for which they'd been created. His eyes rolled behind the blackened shades of his lids, but he couldn't open them.

A dull, _shooshing_ sound shimmied through his ears and into his head, reverberating in his brain and echoing back so that if he could have moved his hands he would have pressed them tightly to the sides of his head. He _ached._ Darkness teased away the heat, beckoned with promises of peace, and he rolled into its waiting arms.

"…didn't pick the wrong one… Winchester… your eyes… at me…"

A woman's voice drifted in through the filter of the dark. Like a buoy riding the ocean, he sank under the waves of peace and surfaced into a world of pain. Her voice followed the hot roll of agony that broke over his arm and his face. As he descended once more into the dark, a small, cool hand pressed gently against his cheek, holding him, keeping him.

"Open your eyes," she whispered. "Look at me."

The voice was enticing, pleading, captivating. He wanted to do what she asked, but his eyes burned. His face burned. His arm…

"Listen, it's okay, you're not on fire, I promise. You're not on fire."

He realized suddenly that he'd been talking. He'd been trying to tell her—tell _someone_—that he was burning.

"Look at me," she said again, and this time he obeyed.

Slowly, as though exhaustion and pain had physical weight, he opened his eyes—first one then the other. He was outside, he realized, propped up against a tree. He rolled his eyes downward and saw that his coat and shirt were charred on his left side. He blinked as tears pooled in his stinging eyes, streaming down his face, combating the smoke that still wafted and curled around him.

"That's it… keep 'em open," the woman said, her voice low, throaty.

He blinked slowly, the blurry edges of her face coming into sharp focus around her eyes. They were blue. Vivid blue, searing in their intensity. Dark hair hung in bangs just above those eyes and swung in a long sweep of a tail over her shoulder, brushing the top of his hand as she moved to pull his blackened shirt from his arm.

Hissing with pain as the material brushed against the scorched skin of his arm, he closed his eyes, trying to swallow. His heart beat time in his head, shooting through his eyes and echoing in his ears.

"No!" She tapped his cheek with a quick slap. "You keep them open, you hear me?"

He tried, but pain rocked through him, stealing his air, capturing his will, and the darkness beckoned, its pull like gravity. As he slipped again under the wave he heard her calling a name, anger and desperation warring for dominance in her voice.

He was sliding, the black shifting to gray, the ringing in his ears fighting with the woman's voice for supremacy. He felt arms wrap around his chest and he drew in a stuttering breath. Impossibly, the woman was lifting him forward, up, his legs rocking beneath him, his arm across her shoulders. As he felt himself shifting, he forced his eyes open. His chin rested on the top of her dark head.

"Wha—"

"Oh, great timing," she said, her voice betraying the effort lifting his dead weight had actually been. "Help out a little here."

_Walking… we're walking… _

"—happened?" His voice sounded foreign to his ears, like razorblades sliding over rocks. His throat burned from the effort of speaking. The pain in his arm shot waves of icy-hot pain through him. He felt it in his teeth.

"Explosion," she answered, one hand bracing him at the chest, the other gripping his waist. "We'll go slow."

He swallowed. "Where's—"

He felt her still beneath him, felt her wait for him to finish.

"Where's that guy?"

"Which guy?"

"T-the one… the one you were calling," he finished, blinking in the darkness, slowly becoming aware that the gray of the late evening was illuminated by the burnt-orange of a nearby fire.

"Dean?"

"Yeah," he coughed, and the force resounded through his head, slicing through his left eye. "Him." He gripped her shoulder tighter, squeezing his eyes closed tight against the hot pain.

He felt her twist beneath him and he blinked, sliding his chin from the top of her head so that he could see her face in the shimmering light. She had high, prominent cheekbones, a small, pert nose, and full lips. And she was staring at him with eyes full of shock.

"Are you serious?"

He swallowed, suddenly desperate for water. "He didn't make it… did he?"

"Shit." She twisted again, moving her hand from his chest to clasp the arm draped over her shoulders. "We are in serious trouble." She stepped forward, tugging lightly on his arm.

He stumbled forward, trying to remember that there was an order to the process of walking. She continued slowly, taking on his weight, head down.

"W-why are we…" He hissed as another stumble jarred his eggshell-fragile head. "Why are we in trouble?"

He felt her sigh. She paused, leaning him against a tree. He fought the urge to allow his knees to buckle, allow his battered body to slide into a boneless heap at the base of the tree. He slid smoke-burned eyes to her face, slowly taking in the surrounding wooded area, the increasing darkness, the chill that seemed to creep through his skin and burrow into his bones.

"Because," she sighed, keeping one hand on his chest to help hold him in place, grabbing the long tail of hair, tossing it back over her shoulder. "You _are_ Dean."

He blinked. "What?"

"_You _are Dean," she repeated, tipping her head forward, her eyes seeming to soften to gray in the waning light.

_Dean_… the name rattled in his head like a single penny in an empty Mason jar. It echoed, slid, rolled, grabbing nothing, holding nothing. _Dean…_

"I-I…"

"Your name is Dean Winchester," she said. "We were caught in an explosion."

He shook his head numbly. "N-no…"

"Yes." Her eyes shifted up to his forehead, then down to his left arm, hanging limp at his side. "And I need to get you out of here before…"

He stared at her, waiting. Waiting for something to click, for something to trigger familiarity, for something to seize him.

"Before…" he prompted when she didn't finish.

She ran a slim hand over her lips, and he saw a flash of a narrow, silver ring.

"Before the guy that set the trap—the explosion—figures out we made it out of there." Stepping close to him, she wrapped his arm around her sturdy shoulders once more. "You ready?"

_Dean…_

"I-I don't… I can't…"

Dean felt an odd tremble shake loose in his chest. It spread quickly to his belly, settling low and worrisome in his gut. Something was _wrong_. Something was missing…

"Listen," she said, her voice strained with the effort of pulling him along with her. "I'll explain everything, I swear to God. But we have to leave. Now."

He stumbled forward again, his left arm swinging loose, the raw, burned skin brushing against his jeans and shooting electric currents of pain from his fingertips to his teeth.

"Holy shit," he breathed, biting back a groan. "This sucks out loud."

"You're telling me," she muttered. "I got stuff back at my place for your arm and your face…"

"M-my face?"

"Easy, there." He heard a smile in her voice. It calmed him. "You're still prettier than you've a right to be."

"Good to know," he muttered as they breeched a thick cluster of trees and approached a dark shape tucked into an alcove of a large oak. _Motorcycle?_

"I know it's not a muscle car," she said, panting slightly, "but it's a classic."

Dean glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. "Muscle car?"

"Forget it."

The bike was a sleek, stripped down Harley, black with sliver lettering. The leather seat was worn and looked to be barely able to carry two. Dean slowly pulled his arm from the woman's slim shoulders, finding his balance in a stance that felt natural: legs shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bowed, cushioning his weight, arms at his sides with hands open, ready.

"Think you can hold on?"

"To what?" He pulled his eyes from the bike to the woman. The wind picked up slightly, carrying with it the smell of the fire, of burning wood and memories turning to ash.

"To me," she said, swinging a leather-clad leg over the seat, and lifting her eyes to his. Her leather jacket brushed the seat with her movement, the thigh-length material scrunching slightly around her waist as she sat.

Clouds traveled over the rising moon, light hitting the clearing, giving the edges of the trees, the bike, and the woman a soft, silver-white halo. Dean felt himself sway and pulled in a lungful of air, grimacing as he felt his chest pull and stretch, fighting back the cough that licked the heels of his breath.

"Dean?"

He blinked. _Empty_. He felt empty; the name didn't fit, it didn't sound right in her voice.

"Yeah, I can hold on," he said.

"Put your feet here and here," she said, pointing. "Lean forward, and wrap your arms around me."

Dean did as she instructed, wrapping his right arm around her slim waist, leaving his left arm to hang. He didn't want to think about moving that arm more than he had to; he was _not_ going to let it rest on the buckles and zippers that adorned the woman's leather jacket. The hot sear of pain had dulled somewhat to a numbing ache that threatened to curl him into a ball just to ride it out.

"Who are you?" He whispered into her ear, his chin on her shoulder as he leaned forward. His trembling body rested against her strong back. He leaned back slightly as she raised from the seat to kick start the motorcycle.

"My name is Sophie," she shot over her shoulder, reaching to pull her long hair out of his way. "Sophie Emerson."

She shifted, turning slightly sideways to look at him. The thrum of the cycle vibrated under Dean's thighs. The rumble was low, haunting, powerful. He simply looked back at her. The name meant nothing.

At his continued silence, Sophie turned around and Dean curled his fingers around her waist. She pulled away from the cove of the tree onto a gravel road, the back tire of the bike fishtailing slightly as it worked to grab the rough surface. Dean bit the inside of his lip as the rocking motion rippled through his wounded body. One more of those and he knew his head would simply roll from his shoulders and bounce down the road of its own accord.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through his nose, to focus on the night air rushing past his face, on the smell of the gasoline and oil he could detect from the machine beneath him, on the feel of the woman he rested against.

_Dean Winchester…_

She'd said the name as though it were heavy in her mouth. He turned his focus inward, thinking, trying to pin down ghosts of thought, after-images of memory. He felt like something was tickling the back of his mind… an itch he couldn't scratch. He was chasing mist.

Sophie took a corner sharply, her body angling to accommodate the tilt of the bike, bringing Dean with her. His face slid against her shoulder until his nose was buried in her hair. Who was she to him? She'd pulled him from an explosion… she'd saved his life…

_She doesn't smell like fire_, he suddenly realized. The charcoaled smell of ashes and soot clung to him in a suffocating, invisible cloud. Yet Sophie smelled like Ivory soap. _We were caught in an explosion…_

He felt the bike shift again, then slow. He tried to lift his head, to look around, but it was lead. He pulled in a breath, the scent of her, and tried again. He was able to curve his back away slightly—just enough that his forehead rested between her shoulder blades.

The bike stopped and Dean's head bounced lightly against Sophie's back. He bit back a groan of protest. She shut down the engine, then slowly straightened, pushing his body back with her movement. Dean slumped, the void from the sudden absence of Sophie's body immediately filling with night air and reviving him.

"We're here," Sophie said, rolling her hip and dismounting, sliding her leg free without jostling Dean.

Dean looked up and around. They were parked in an alley next to a warehouse; lights from several large windows cut through with rectangular frames shone down, throwing them into shadow. The bricks were worn, aged, and Dean could barely make out the lingering letters on the side that read _Beckett's Cotton_ in faded yellow and blue.

"Do I…"

"You've never been here before," Sophie said, frowning, her soft eyes running down his hunched form.

Dean tipped his chin up. Leaning his weight onto his right hand on the worn seat in front of him, he swung his leg back and over the rear of the bike, intending to stand next to Sophie. Her arms saved him from landing in a heap of sooty limbs on the damp alley floor.

"Easy, there, soldier," she muttered. "Let's just… hey, no, no, d-don't fade on me yet, Dean. That's it, there y-you go… lemme just… get your arm… there."

As she pulled his arm over her slight build, the edges of Dean's world softened and blended until there was only the ground, his boots, and the silver flash of Sophie's ring as she reached across to hold him up at his chest. A dull hum began in his ears once more, deadening the intermittent sounds of traffic, the clump of their shoes as heavy steps led them to the doorway, the beating of his heart.

Sophie's voice cut through the hum, guiding him, moving him, forcing him to move with her until finally, blessedly they stepped through a doorway and into a cluttered apartment. Sophie kicked the door shut behind her, stumbling slightly as she moved him to the couch. With a grunt of effort, she leaned to the side, dropping him unceremoniously into a seat.

Dean groaned as he head dropped back against the soft cushion of the furniture. The darkness was calling him—and it wasn't using an empty name. It was beseeching him like an old friend… as if he were one with it, as if he'd been there before.

"Dean!"

His eyes snapped open and his body jerked as if it belonged to someone else.

"You can sleep later," Sophie said, standing before him and shrugging out of her long leather coat. Dean caught a glimpse of silver from the lining of the jacket before she tossed it over a nearby chair.

"Just… gimme a minute," he muttered, allowing his head to sink back into the giving cushion of the couch.

"No." Her hand was in his hair, fingers sliding back, pulling his face up, eyes on his. The soft gray of before snapped back to vivid blue. "I need to take care of that arm."

"'M fine."

"Don't give me that," Sophie all but growled. "I saw you do that Superman imitation."

Dean squinted at her. "Huh?"

"Oh, right," Sophie sighed, shaking her head. "Well, you were thrown back pretty far, and if we're gonna finish this, I need you all there. Or… as all there as you can be."

_Dean Winchester…_

Dean sighed. "Finish what?"

"This job," Sophie released his head and turned from him, moving through the cluttered apartment to a back room.

He heard music; a gruff, lonely voice filtered through the apartment with a consistency of a heartbeat. Dean looked carefully around, trying not to move his head too much in the process. Directly across from him was a stone fireplace, white candles of various sizes filling the hearth and dried wax spread on the floor and hung in stalactites from the mantel. The large windows he'd notices from the alley flanked either side of the room, and the multiple panels of glass were decorated with papers covered in writing.

Peering closer, he saw that the writing wasn't English. In fact… it looked like… Latin.

_I know Latin?_

With a trembling arm, Dean pushed himself up from the couch, balancing on unsteady legs. Shuffling to the wall, he leaned carefully against it, using its solidarity to guide his sojourn to the windows. He narrowed his focus on the closest paper. _Hic vos mos subsisto, hic vos es specialis…_

"Here you will stay…" he whispered, "here you are secret…"

_You gonna read me a story?_ A woman's taunting voice, the tilt of a head… _He died screaming... I killed him myself…_

"AH!" Dean cried out, clutching his head as a white-hot slice of pain shot through his eyes, searching for an escape and finding none. He saw blonde hair, a sassy, evil smile… and eyes… eyes like night, like oil on water…

"Dean?"

_Oh, you're just going on a little trip… way down south…_

His voice. _His_ voice. He cried out again, not even feeling when his knees hit the floor. The pain in his head grew, blazing in its intensity. The smile shifted, the hair was dark, the eyes red…

"Hey, hey… take it – take it easy… what—"

_Say it in Latin… In Latin it's Christo…_ Dark hair, easy blue-green eyes, a crooked smile.

"Aw, God," Dean breathed, falling forward, barely catching himself with his right arm before his face greeted the floor. "What the hell…"

"Dean, let me help—"

A cloud. A black cloud shooting to a ceiling marked with white. A black cloud shooting from the mouth of a girl as she screamed… screamed in agony and resistance and betrayal… Her scream tore from Dean's throat as the image faded and he finally greeted the welcoming darkness like a friend.

www

He smelled coffee.

The rich aroma was enticing enough to draw him from the dark in increments. He allowed awareness to approach. Rolling his head, he felt something soft give beneath him. As he rose one further level away from the dark, he realized he could hear music.

_"You in the dark, you in the pain, you on the run. Living a hell, living your ghost, living your end. Never seem to get in the place that I belong. Don't wanna lose the time… lose the time to come…"_

The soulful, tear-stained recording was accompanied by a throaty female voice coming from very nearby. Coming closer. Cool hands ran a light touch on his forehead, lifting as they reached his left eye; that area of his face that was suddenly burning. Nimble fingers moved to his left arm, lifting it carefully.

Dean groaned.

"I knew you were awake." The singing stopped and a smile was in her voice. "Faker."

"What…" he blinked, feeling sluggish, slow, like he'd had one-too-many the night before.

"You fainted."

"I don't faint."

"Yeah?" She smiled, her eyes a soft gray. "How do you know?"

_Sophie…_

He remembered. Sophie Emerson. Explosion. Bike. _Dean Winchester…_

"Pretty sure I don't faint," he said, darting a thick tongue out to wet parched lips.

Sophie slid a hand beneath his head, tilting his head up and lifting a glass of water to his mouth.

"Easy, easy," she soothed. "Not so fast. There's more where that came from."

"Thanks," he breathed as she lowered him carefully.

"Well," Sophie sighed, sitting back a bit, her hip resting against his thigh. She laid her hands on her knees. "You shot Plan A straight to hell."

Dean pulled his eyebrows together. "How'd I manage that?"

"You fainted on me… try to keep up, Winchester."

He pulled the side of his mouth up in a grin. It was immediate and natural and he felt himself wake further. Sliding his eyes past Sophie's form, he saw that the light filtering in behind the papered windows had changed.

"Time is it?" he asked, working to sit up.

Sophie reached for him, grasping his bare shoulder and helping him ease forward. It was then he realized that she'd managed to get him from the windows to the couch. Not only that, his burned shirt was off, and his left arm was bandaged. His eyebrows went up, impressed.

"Nearly five."

"In the morning?"

Sophie nodded. "You've been out all night." She yawned, the rest of her sentence stretched by her gaping mouth. "I couldn't w-wake you."

He suddenly remembered the pain. The flashes. Memories?

"I-I saw…"

Sophie looked at him, waiting.

"Never mind," he said, unsure what he'd seen, unsure how to tell her.

"You want some coffee?"

His mouth instantly watered. His skin tingled. His fingers flinched. He wanted coffee more than he wanted to take his next breath.

"Oh, God, yes," he nodded, pleased when his head stayed where it was supposed to. The hours of darkness had helped to heal him enough that his aches were tolerable, the pain present, but less intense.

Sophie smiled, patting his knee and stood. She moved through a far doorway and he tilted his head enough that he could see a small galley kitchen. Just outside of the kitchen, against the wall facing him, he saw a steamer trunk with a stereo system and several hundred CDs stacked on and around it. He could see another doorway on the opposite end of the room that he assumed led to a bedroom.

The apartment was small, but had a worn, lived-in feeling. It both fit Sophie and seemed at odds with her. He glanced over to the chair across from him where she'd tossed her coat, remembering the flash of silver. Before he could stand up and inspect the garment, Sophie returned with a mug of coffee.

"Black?"

"Absolutely."

"You sure?" Her full lips tilted up in a slightly teasing grin.

"Huh," he said, meeting her eyes. _How about that… black coffee…_ "Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure."

As he reached for the mug, his eyes fell on the white bandages wrapped around his arm. It felt better, the ache still present, but the raw, exposed, burning sensation had lessened. Tentatively reaching up to his face, he felt a bandage across part of his forehead.

"Thanks," he said, indicating both the coffee and the bandages.

"No problem," Sophie said, yawning again. "You think you can stay out of trouble for a couple of hours?"

"Where'm I gonna go?" Dean replied, trying not to gulp the steaming beverage. "Only thing I know is that I'm alive and I like my coffee black."

The music rotated.

_"When we die, we go into the arms of those who remember us…"_

"And I'm pretty sure I'm not a fan of this emo rock shit," he muttered.

"Hey!" she protested. "Don't knock Bush!"

_"Are you drowning or waving? I just want you to save me…"_

"Really pretty sure," he said, finishing the coffee.

Shaking her head at him, Sophie stood. "It keeps the rats away," she said. "You want something else, food or something, help yourself." She tipped her head toward the kitchen, her long hair sliding over her shoulder and swinging across the front of her chest with the motion.

"Hey… Sophie?"

She seemed to flinch a little at hearing her name in his voice. Turning, she distractedly grabbed the end of her dark ponytail and tossed it back over her shoulder. Her eyes remained steady, waiting.

"I… you said that you would… I can't…" _Dammit, finish a freakin' sentence…_

Sophie dropped her head, her shoulders slumping, seeming to understand what he was trying to ask. "Well, if we're gonna do this now… _I _need some coffee."

She disappeared into the kitchen. Dean stood slowly, relieved that his legs seemed to be steady, although now that he was upright he realized that the ache in his back and entire left side hadn't abated all that much. He made his way over to the steamer trunk, lowering himself down in front of the music collection. Methodically sorting through Sophie's eclectic collection, he periodically shook his head and grinned.

Lyrics shifted through his head as he scanned different song titles, melodies tuning in and changing stations as easily as if there were a radio dial in his head. He knew so many, and they were all so real, so close, so familiar. _I know this… I know S&M, I know Back in Black, I know Kansas, I know Zeppelin… but Dean Winchester means _nothing_ to me…_

He selected a CD and started to reach toward the stereo when he caught his reflection in the clear glass surface of the stereo face and _nothing_ suddenly turned inside out.

"Holy shit," he breathed. He could only see his silhouette, but he knew this face. He knew the features.

"Dean?" Sophie's voice held an understandable note of concern. He knew she'd already seen him keel over once.

"What color are my eyes?" He looked up at her.

"What?"

"My eyes!"

"Green."

"Not brown?"

Sophie shook her head. "They're green. Rather pretty, actually."

"I could have sworn…" He remembered _brown_ eyes, dark, full of mixed emotions, shifting to pride, then sorrow.

"C'm here," Sophie said, leaning down for his hand.

He let her haul him to his feet. She kept his hand in hers and forced him to follow her to the second door off of the living room. It was a small bedroom, with a large, unmade bed and a dresser against one wall, the door to a bathroom directly across from them. She pushed him gently into the bathroom, and he turned to face the mirror above the sink.

"Meet Dean Winchester," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

He saw large green eyes stitched to his face by thick, dark lashes. The whites of his eyes were tinged pink from where smoke had burned them. He saw freckles across his nose. He saw the scruff of beard beginning to frame his jaw. He saw raw scrape marks on his left cheek, and a white bandage covering a larger wound above his left eye.

He looked harder and he saw a scar below his right eye, another scar nearly dividing his forehead, a third scar below his bottom lip. He leaned closer and he saw the beginnings of lines between his eyebrows, around the edges of his eyes. His eyes traveled down and he saw a black cord supporting a gold amulet. Egyptian he suddenly knew. _Protection_.

He reached up with his right hand and touched the cord, seeing a silver ring on his finger. _From Dad._ Made partly from… something… a… bullet? _Dammit… so close…_He could practically hear the information humming, feel the weight of it in the back of his mind. He knew the memory was there, sliding through the hollow of his mind like mercury.

"We're gonna need to get you some clothes," Sophie said suddenly and Dean looked over at her, realizing that she had been scrutinizing him as closely as he had been studying himself. She met his eyes unflinchingly, and he found himself expecting her to blush, to turn coy, to… flirt.

She did none of those things. Her search had been for reasons he didn't yet know.

"Sophie," he turned from the mirror. "You need to tell me what's going on."

"Let's go back to—"

"Now." Dean dropped his chin, his eyes hard, steady on hers.

"Fine," she snapped. "But let's go back to the living room."

"Here's good." Dean sat down on the edge of the bathtub, resting his hands on his knees. Instinct told him that she would use the change of scenery to hedge further, to delay. He wanted to know _now_.

Narrowing her eyes at him, Sophie leaned against the doorway. The music from the other room shifted tracks. In the moment of silence between songs, Dean heard voices from the apartments that sandwiched Sophie's, scuttling feet above them, running water banging through pipes around them. He didn't drop his eyes. He held her with him, watching as her resistance softened.

_"You gave me this, made me give. Your silver grin still sticking it in. You have soul machine, soul machine…"_

"You work for me," she said finally. "At least you do at the moment."

He felt his body instinctively still, waiting for what came next.

"You're an assassin, Dean." She tilted her head, watching his reaction. He didn't move. His eyes were carefully empty. He gave nothing away. "You kill for a living."

"Yeah? And who am I killing for you?"

Sophie's lips twitched. "A man named Ben Rena. A man who has been… hunting me for a long, long time."

Dean held still. "Hunting you?"

Sophie shifted, her eyes darting to the side, her hands curling into fists across her waist. "Stalking, threatening, pick your pleasure."

"Something wrong with the cops?"

"Oh, the fuckin' cops," Sophie scoffed, pushing away from the wall. "This is beyond them. That's why I need _you_."

Dean watched her walk from the room, face the bed, then turn and walk back toward him. Her face was in shadow, but her eyes had phased again, as he'd noticed they did with emotion. They were ice-blue once more, and no longer soft.

"I have a niece," she said. "She is the only family I have left."

Dean felt a sharp stab in his head at that, but didn't react. His focus was on Sophie. He knew there was more. Something was off… something was… _missing_.

"Rena found her and is planning on using her to get to me."

"Why?"

"Because he wants me dead, that's why."

"What did you do to him?"

"Nothing!"

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "People usually need a reason for wanting someone dead, Sophie."

"I promise you," she crossed over to him, crouching down so that she was looking in his eyes. "Dean, I promise you, I did nothing to him. He is a wicked, evil... _monster_. Twisted with hate and corrupted with power."

Dean tipped his head back, keeping his eyes on hers. "Sooo… what you're sayin' is… you want me to kill Darth Vader."

"This is serious, Dean," Sophie frowned, pushing at his knee in frustration. "If he finds me, he will kill me and anyone who gets in his way."

"What were we doing back in the woods?"

"What?" Her brows met over the bridge of her nose.

"When the plan blew up in our—well, _my_ face."

"He, uh… lured us there," Sophie said, her eyes shifting to the side once more. She stood up. "You set a trap, it backfired."

_She's lying_… He suddenly knew it as clearly as he knew he loved black coffee and Metallica. As clearly as he now knew the ring he wore had been made from the silver of a bullet. A bullet his father had removed from the body of a…

"Holy shit," he breathed, rocking back slightly on the edge of the tub, reaching quickly to grip the cool porcelain and steady himself.

"What?" Sophie looked down at him.

"N-nothing," Dean said, rubbing at the pressure in his head.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, not looking at her. "You, uh, care if I take a shower?"

She shook her head. "Just be careful of that arm," she admonished. "We'll go get you some clothes later."

Nodding again, Dean stood and waited until she left the bathroom, closing the door behind her. He leaned over and gripped the edges of the porcelain sink. _Werewolf…_

"What the hell?" He whispered.

Images slammed into him like physical blows, sweat breaking out on his forehead, upper lip, back. Impossible, unrealistic images of wolves shifting, twisting, turning into man, of a sweet-faced woman suddenly sprouting menacing, deadly fangs, of a wasted, withered man in a hooded robe leaning over a child, of an ancient, hollow-eyed figure turning away from him and fading.

Nausea rolled through him, causing him to press his lips together. He began to shake, sweating and freezing at once. His hands slipped on the edge of the sink and he went to his knees gasping for breath, the pressure in his head growing.

He bit his lip until he could taste the slick copper of blood in his mouth. Pale, haunted faces shimmered and shook toward him, skeletal remains burned, furniture flew across rooms, giant creatures with talons for hands roared in a darkened cave…

"Who the hell is Dean Winchester," he gasped aloud, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes.

Maybe he was a movie producer, an actor, a writer. Maybe these images were pieces of an imagined world. Maybe his Swiss-cheesed brain was simply misfiring… he _wasn't _remembering, he _wasn't _reliving…

But as he shakily pulled himself up to the closed toilet lid and eased his jeans from his body, he saw more evidence that the horrific images buffeting his mind like razors was indeed his reality. Thin, white scars dashed a Morse code of war across his chest and down his legs. He looked at his hands, spreading his fingers wide, noting their strength, noting the calluses.

He slowly unwrapped the bandage around his left arm from wrist to elbow. The burns there were brilliant red, blistered, and covered in a clear salve. His arm ached, the skin pricking with sharp pain as the air teased it like a touch. He knew the water would be worse, but he suddenly _needed_ the water. He wanted to lose himself in the feel of it over his skin, forget that he couldn't remember.

Dean stood, turning on the shower. He pulled the bandage from his forehead, then stepped in, his back to the water, and let the heat of it ease the tension from his corded neck. It ran in a silky trail down his back, over his shoulders, down his arms. He hissed when it saturated his wound and pulled his left arm forward, out of the spray of the shower, then rolled his head so that the water filled his ears and ran in rivulets down his face.

_An assassin… kill for a living…_ It seemed to fit. The idea settled on his shoulders, at home there. It would explain the numerous scars. _Kill for a living…hunting me for a long, long time…_

_I think Dad wants us to pick up where he left off… Saving people, hunting things…_

Dean gasped as the words hit him, shooting a dagger through his eyes. He dug his fingers into the closed lids, the water from the shower running over his neck and into his nose and mouth. The images sped up, the film in his mind on fast forward. He curled his fingers into his short, wet hair as he saw a pale, dark-haired girl in white fall into an open coffin, felt the impact of the spike as he drove it through her chest.

"Guh…"

He saw a sewer, heard the pleas for help from women trapped in metal coffins; he saw a piece of paper…Dana Shulps… he saw the sassy-eyed blonde tied to a chair switching swiftly to another dark-haired woman in white screeching as two children grasped her then melted with her into the floor, he saw the ghastly gray face of a boy peering at him from the surface of a lake…

"Stop," he whispered. He staggered forward, his arm thrust out, supporting his body with the flat of his hand against the tile wall of the shower. "Stop…"

And like the blast from a rock-salt filled shotgun, the memories ceased, leaving a spinning silence in their wake.

"Who the hell am I?"

www

Towel-drying his aching body, Dean realized that he had only his jeans and boxers. Sophie must have thrown his charred shirt away when she cleaned him up last night. He dressed carefully, conscious of the throbbing burn that had returned to his arm as the water and air tormented his tortured skin.

He stood before the sink, clad in the only clothes he owned, staring at his reflection. A drop of water fell from his short, still-wet hair and he watched it travel from his forehead, linger at his eyebrow, then run down his temple, tracing his cheek and separating into three separate tracks of water at the coarse stubble of hair at his jaw.

_Saving people… hunting things… kill for a living…_

Exactly _what_ he killed was starting to become clear to him. But then how did Ben Rena—how did _Sophie_—fit into this new realization? Was Rena one of those creatures Dean kept seeing in brief, flickering flashes of memory as he regarded his own face? She'd called him a monster…

Sighing, Dean flexed the stiffening fingers of his left hand and opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, looking for a razor. He felt the itch of the new-growth of beard and knew instinctively that it was his habit to remain clean-shaven. Deodorant, _Eternity_ perfume, toothpaste, toothbrush, ibuprofen.

"Oh, thank _God_," Dean breathed, tapping three pills into his hand and swallowing them immediately. Hesitating only a moment, he tapped several more into his hand and stuffed them in the pocket of his jeans.

No razor. No other medicines, either, which he found slightly odd.

"Must be a healthy girl," he shrugged, closing the mirror.

As the image slid with the motion of the cabinet door, Dean caught a face behind him. The flash was so quick that he jerked, startled, and turned. Nothing. No one. But he would have sworn that he'd seen a face, long blonde hair, blue-green eyes, a white gown… He shivered.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Dean started to call out to Sophie, when he saw her sprawled on her bed. She still wore her black leather pants and dark shirt, but her boots were off and her legs were curled up. She'd shoved her arms under her pillows and freed her hair from the ponytail so that it spread in a dark curtain over her back and spilled onto the sheets. Her body was curved into an 'S' and her face looked young, innocent, and sexy as hell.

Quietly crossing the room, Dean grabbed the end of the white down comforter that she'd shoved in a pile at the foot of the bed and pulled it up and over her shoulders. As he did, he let his eyes wander the smooth line of her face, the part of her full lips. Her breath was soft, almost imperceptible, her lashes dark smudges against her cheeks. Dean felt a low heat build, felt a tingle of anticipation, felt his mouth go slightly dry.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

She was asleep, and he felt his body responding to her. He shook his head at his own base instincts. Straightening, he saw the open door of the closet just to the right of the dresser. Curious, he stepped over, easing the door open further.

As he expected, several pairs of jeans, pants, and shirts hung in neat rows with what looked like a few dozen pairs of shoes tossed in a pile beneath the clothes. Dean ran his finger carefully over the edges of the hangers. He stopped, suddenly, when he touched a soft, familiar fabric. Pulling out the garment, he saw that it was a large red-flannel shirt, obviously belonging to a man.

Frowning, he put the shirt back and delved further into that side of the closet. Black T-shirts, white suit shirts, dark pants, a uniform. _Uniform? _He pulled the uniform out, noting that it was old—like World War II old—and that it bore the rank of Captain on the shoulder insignia.

"Huh," he breathed softly.

Putting the uniform back, Dean grabbed one of the T-shirts. The red flannel shirt and suit shirts were very obviously too big for him, but the T-shirt felt just right. As he pulled it over his head, easing it across the exposed burn on his arm, he saw a brown leather jacket hanging on a hook at the very back of the closet.

He reached out, fingers sliding over the soft, worn material. After a moment of hesitation, he pulled the jacket from the hook and took it with him to the living room. Glancing over at the couch, he saw that Sophie had left the bandages from when she'd patched him up during the night.

Hearing another track on Sophie's CD begin, he looked over at the stereo, momentarily unsure if he should soothe his ears or his arm first. Dropping the leather jacket on the couch, he moved over to the stereo. He picked up the CD he'd almost inserted before his shower, and started to open it.

_Well, for one… they're cassette tapes…_

The voice was so familiar, so close, that Dean glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. No one.

_It's the greatest hits of mullet rock…_

"Driver picks the music," Dean muttered softly. Frowning, he set the CD down, and picked up another. Inserting the disk into the music rotation, he pressed play, then held his breath. The cords began and with it, no pain, no searing memories. Just the easy, rolling rhythm of Led Zeppelin.

_"Close the doors, put out the light. You know they won't be home tonight…"_

He went back over to the couch, listening, anticipating lyrics, smiling when he was right. He carefully spread the clear burn cream over his wounded arm, wincing as he did so, then wrapped the gauze back around from wrist to elbow. He left the cut on his forehead open, needing a mirror to bandage that and not wanting to go back into the bathroom.

Pulling on his socks and boots, which he found stacked next to the couch, he stood and started to head to the kitchen to forage for food. He paused at the chair where Sophie's jacket lay sprawled from her toss the night before. Remembering the flash of silver, Dean picked it up. Surprised at the unexpected heaviness of the garment, he held the coat open for a better look at the inside, whistling softly at what it revealed.

The jacket was leather-lined with a half a dozen built-in pockets on each side. Each pocket snuggly sheathed a small knife about four inches long with a cross-shaped hilt. He withdrew one of the thin, narrow blades laying it in the flat of his hand. The sides were almost dull, but the point was wicked sharp, drawing a tiny spot of blood when he touched it.

He carefully replaced the knife, frowning, and dropped the coat back where he'd found it. _Why would someone need to turn their coat into a friggin' bandolier?__How long had Rena been after her?_ To have so many she had to be either really good… or really bad. As the music played on, Dean left the knives behind and went into the kitchen.

It was small, well-organized. There was a mini-fridge next to the regular refrigerator. He tilted his head, curious. Leaning down, he tried the door of the mini-fridge, only to see a padlock on it. _Okay… random. _

He found the makings for a sandwich and sat in her breakfast nook to eat. Leaning back, he started to prop his feet up on the chair across from him when he saw something attached to the underside of the table.

Setting his sandwich down, he slid his hand under the table and felt a sheath. Pulling the weapon free, he whistled low. It was a knife, the blade nearly as long as his fully extended hand, the hilt covered in dark, worn leather with a silver Celtic knot embedded where his palm gripped.

He automatically checked the knife's balance, holding it where the blade and hilt met with the flat of his middle finger. He cocked an eyebrow. _Nice._ Spinning the large knife carefully, he shifted the hilt back into the palm of his hand.

_That's not fear… that's precaution…_

Dean rubbed at his forehead, forcing the sudden pressure back. He set the knife on the table, glancing up at the clock on the wall above the table. It was nearly noon. He wondered how long he should let Sophie sleep. Something was ticking inside of him, something telling him that he was running out of time. Something was _wrong_…

Finishing his sandwich, he wandered back to the living room. He paused by the stereo, looking at the paper-covered windows.

"Okay, Dean," he reassured himself aloud. "You know Latin. This is not a big deal. Lots of people know Latin. No sissy-girl fainting."

He found himself oddly surprised by his fear of approaching that window. Intuition told him that he didn't fear much. And what he did fear couldn't be fought with guns or knives. Zeppelin crooned in the background, encouraging him.

_"I see the smiling faces; I know I must have left some traces…"_

He stepped closer to the window, running his eyes over the text, the scrawl changing from legible to frantic depending on the pane he was looking at. Poems, Bible verses, spells—all in Latin. He narrowed his focus on one with neat, particular writing.

_Usquequaque vigilo , usquequaque animadverto , vacuus vulnero is ero , ut vos moror teneo is verus , is mos nunquam exsisto tutus vobis…_

Dean frowned. "Always watch, always see, free from harm she will be, as you linger, know this true, she will never be safe from you..." he whispered. "Screw Dean Winchester. Who the hell is Sophie Emerson?"

"I see you made yourself at home."

Dean jumped, turning. Sophie stood in the doorway, her eyes narrowed and puffy from sleep. She was barefoot still, her hair falling over both shoulders, her bangs pushed away from her face. Dean felt the pull in his gut and an almost physical need to touch her. His eyes shifted to her mouth, then back up to her eyes.

"Uh," he swallowed. "Yeah."

"Where'd you get the shirt?" She asked as though she knew.

"I'm guessing… old boyfriend?" Dean lifted an eyebrow.

Sophie snorted, then turned back to her room. Dean pressed his lips down, looking uncertainly around the room. He could feel a familiar pull of weariness. It felt like a slow crawl of greedy fingers working their way up his legs. He rolled his neck slowly, listening to his body, curling his hands into loose fists.

He knew he'd felt this before—this state of constant exhaustion, of perpetual pain—and while his body called to him to _please, please just sit down, just stop moving, _his mind reminded him that there was a job to do and nothing stopped until the job was done. Sophie returned in a few minutes, dressed in jeans, boots, and a white T-shirt, her hair pulled once more back in a ponytail.

"Listen—" she started when she was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. She looked over at the instrument, startled.

"You gonna get that?" Dean asked, chewing on his bottom lip.

"It never rings unless…" she whispered, then crossed the room, picking up the receiver and barking, "What?"

Dean watched as Sophie remained silent, then slammed the phone back on the cradle. "Son of a _bitch_!" she spat.

"What is it?"

She looked to the window, frowning, then turned to him. "He's got her. Or is on his way. We gotta go. Now."

Dean reached out, catching her by the arms as she moved to storm passed him toward the front door. "Wait, whoa—"

"No, Dean," she shook her head, struggling away from him. He gripped tighter, feeling a weak tingle in his left hand. "He is going to get her, do you hear me? _This_ is why I need you." She jerked roughly, pulling her arm free, her eyes flashing up at him. "This is your job!"

"Okay, hotshot," he snapped at her. "You just gonna bust in there, toss some knives, save her ass?"

"Yeah!" She yelled, stepping back from him. "That's pretty much what I was thinking."

"How do you know it isn't a trap?"

"What?"

"Who was that on the phone?"

"A contact."

"You trust this contact?"

"Yes," she growled. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Dean pulled his head back, his brows twitching. "What?"

Sophie grabbed her knife-lined leather jacket, swinging it across her shoulders and shoving her arms in the holes. "You should be out that door two beats ahead of me."

"And do what, Sophie?" Dean challenged. "Stare him to death? I don't have any weapons, no idea who this dude is, no idea how to take him down."

"I do!" Sophie's eyes were hot, her lips set, her jaw trembling.

Dean stared at her a moment, thinking. He took a breath. "What is he?"

She blinked at him. "What do you mean… what?"

"I remember, Sophie," he said softly. "I know about the… creatures."

She narrowed her eyes. "What else do you know?"

Dean felt a pang bounce through his head. "I know that I hunt them… I think my Dad does, too…"

Sophie sighed. "He's… he's just a man, Dean."

"Human?"

"Yes."

Dean frowned, regret filling him. "I can't kill him for you, Sophie."

"Evil is evil, Dean." Sophie dropped her chin, rubbing her forehead. "He _is_ a monster."

"I can't kill a person for you," he repeated.

Lifting her head, she swallowed, looking again over at the paper-covered windows.

"Fine." She brushed passed him, heading to the door. "I'll kill him—you just save Kat."

Dean rotated, following her movement. "Who the hell is Kat?"

"Katherine Martin. My niece."

"Oh," Dean nodded. He glanced down at his hands. "I need… I need a gun."

Sophie froze, her hand on the doorknob. "Why? You already said you're not gonna—"

"I'm not going in there naked," Dean interrupted, lifting an incredulous eyebrow at her.

"I don't have a gun," she said, not turning.

"Well, we need to make a pit stop, then," Dean reached for the brown leather jacket. He pulled it on, cautious of his burned arm, and lifted his eyes to meet Sophie's gaze.

"Where did you get that?" she breathed.

"Your closet."

She stepped up to him, her hand reaching out, fingers trembling. She brushed the lapel gently, her face stricken. Dean held completely still, barely daring to breathe. He suddenly knew he'd seen a look of heartbreak cross a face so swiftly, so keenly, once before. Her pain was heavy in her eyes and his heart ached with the sight of it.

_I don't know what it feels like to lose somebody like that… but I'd think she'd want you to be happy…_

"This was Wade's…"

Dean was silent. His head began a steady thrum, a beat that built slowly at the base of his skull and rolled slowly to his eyes.

"He was wearing it when…" she stopped, lifting gray eyes to his and pulled her bottom lip in. "I kept it because…" She blinked. "Forget it."

"Hey…"

He whispered the word, reaching for her, grabbing her outstretched hand before she pulled it away. She let him, and he tugged her hand once, pulling her a step closer to him. His breath caught at the base of his throat, his body holding the air hostage until he finally stepped away from her. _Damn, woman…_

"I don't have any guns, Dean," she repeated. "Guns took almost everyone I love away from me." She turned from him, whispering, "Disease took the rest."

"You keep your knives," Dean said, his voice low, acquiescing to the inevitable. Rest would have to wait, pain could be ignored. "I know what I need – just take me to someplace… shady."

She shook herself, looking at him over her shoulder with a lifted eyebrow. "Shady?"

"Not like we have time to wait for permits."

"How you gonna pay for it, there, cowboy?"

Dean matched her look. "We'll just take it out of my fee."

Sophie opened the door. "Fair enough."

Leaving the music playing inside of her apartment, she headed to the exterior of the building. Dean followed her down the hall, taking note of the surroundings, amazed again that she had been able to practically carry him from the motorcycle in the alley into her apartment. As they stepped out into the alley, Dean noticed that the sky was heavy with rain clouds; though it was only mid-afternoon, the day held a gray, evening quality. When they reached the bike, Sophie swung her slim leg over the back, kicking the motor on. She looked at him.

"You waiting for an invitation?"

"How do I _not_ have wheels?" he asked.

"You do."

"Where?"

"Beats me," she shrugged. "I didn't wait to look when I was pulling you out of the fire."

Lifting his shoulder in a _works for me_ shrug, Dean swung onto the bike behind her, resting his hands on her slim waist, feeling the knives hidden in her coat beneath his fingers. Sophie swung the bike around, pulling into the afternoon traffic. She navigated the streets, eventually pulling into an alley lined with large, green trash dumpsters. The path was so narrow, Dean felt the metal dumpsters brush his pant legs.

She stopped in front of a battered door covered in yellow spray paint. It was obviously the back door to a business, and somehow he knew it to be exactly the kind of shady establishment where he could get what he needed without question. Dean dismounted, heading to the door. He paused, turning back, when he realized she wasn't with him.

"You coming?"

Sophie shook her head. She looked exhausted and Dean felt a pang of remorse. She hadn't gotten that much sleep after staying up with him all night. Reaching into her jacket pocket, Sophie pulled out a roll of bills. She handed it to him with a look silencing his automatic question. He nodded, then stepped through the door.

The interior was dim, lit from the light of a bare yellowed bulb hanging from an electrical wire from the ceiling. The smell from the alley garbage dumpsters permeated the air inside the "shop." Dean's expression hardened, his eyes emptying of questions. He dropped his hands into the pockets of the worn leather jacket, lifting his chin and scanning the room with hooded eyes. Across from him he saw a thin man with sparse, greasy hair wearing a wife-beater that hung loosely from his bony form sitting behind a glass counter reading a paper.

Dean approached, feeling the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise, aware of the multiple dark corners and crevasses that he couldn't see into. The man looked up when he stopped in front of the glass counter.

"Help you?"

"Looking for a gun." Dean's voice was hard, impersonal, focused.

"Got a few of them."

"Got a Ruger?"

The man lifted an eyebrow. "Got two grand?"

Dean looked down through the glass countertop. He figured the guy had to have a Glock—that particular weapon was the soda pop of the gun world. But it only held ten rounds, tops. He wanted something that he didn't have to worry about reloading as often, that he could conceal, that could kill a monster. Hence the 16-round Ruger.

"Got an HK in yesterday," the man said at Dean's silence.

Dean lifted his head, peering at him through narrowed eyes. "Yeah?"

"Two hundred."

"Gonna have to check it out, first."

The man shrugged, standing and limping into a room behind him. Dean pulled out Sophie's roll of money, flicking through it quickly. Five hundred. Dean wondered how she'd been able to pull this money together.

The man returned, handing Dean the black Heckler and Koch. Dean hefted the gun, relishing the weight in his hands. Without thinking, he started breaking the gun down before the man's shocked eyes.

"You can't get that back together, you still gotta pay for it."

Dean ignored him. His hands moved swiftly, evenly. He felt as if he were playing an instrument, as if he had been doing this all of his life, as if a skill that made him whole, made him _Dean,_ was returning. In the space of five minutes, he'd taken the gun apart and had it nearly reassembled. The man behind the counter whistled low.

"I'll take it," Dean said, clicking the empty chamber. "And a box of ammo. And two clips."

"That'll cost you extra."

_No shit…_ "I'll give you two fifty."

"Done."

The man clapped a box of 9mm bullets on the glass countertop and Dean filled a clip with sure, steady hands. He shoved the clip into the base of the gun, flicking on the safety, and slid it into the back of his waistband. With a sigh of contentment, he straightened, shoving the extra clip and bullets into his pocket, and handed the money over the counter.

"You be careful out there," the man muttered, eyeing Dean.

"I think I can safely say that careful isn't something I'm used to," Dean tipped the man a two-fingered salute and left the shop. The near-darkness of the outdoors was still bright enough in comparison to the gloom of the shop that he had to squint as he exited.

Sophie sat where he'd left her, staring ahead, jaw working overtime. She glanced over at him as he approached.

"Get what you need?"

"Yep," he swung his leg over the bike, handing her the remaining money. "Let's go get your niece."

www

a/n:

**Songs (in order of appearance):**

Bush: _Letting the Cables Sleep, Out of this World, _and_ Mouth_

Zeppelin: _No Quarter, In My Time of Dying_

_I have no working knowledge of weaponry -- guns or blades. I have picked up lingo and motions from those who **do** know and from watching copious amounts of movies and TV. I assume there are many of you out there who know much more about this than I do, so I hope you'll forgive a bit of creative licensing that fiction allows if I get terminology too wrong. However, I'm always learning and any pointers you're willing to offer, I'm always open to accepting. (This goes for medical information as well.)_

_There are two more parts to come… hope you enjoy!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer/Spoiler: **See Chapter 1.

a/n: The Latin in this chapter (and throughout this story) was translated online, and I saw that there were some slight differences in how the words could be interpreted… so, if you are well-versed in Latin, please forgive any discrepancies that you might notice. I am better at Gaelic than I am at Latin.

Also, Sam will be in the story. Promise.

Linger

_"Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you - and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!"  
-- __**John Irving**_

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Kat lived in a bungalow house near the edge of town. Sophie parked the bike at the end of the street against a neighbor's fence. Dean stepped off the bike, putting his back to the fence and looking around. Sophie was moving slow, and had been quiet since they left the alley behind the gun shop.

"You with me?" he looked at her over his shoulder.

She lifted her heavy-lidded eyes, nodding. As he watched she flicked her wrist, a knife dropping from a sleeve holster and into her hand. She glanced at him, and he heard the soft _shhfft _as the blade shot out of the hilt.

"I'm ready," she said.

"Resourceful," Dean commented, turning back to case the street.

"I do what I can."

Dean smelled the rain as it fell from the heavy clouds behind them, carried forward and washing over them with the force of the wind. The water was cool, running from his hair and stinging the cuts on his forehead. He glanced back at Sophie who had pushed her bangs from her face, leaving her eyes exposed.

"I don't see another car, but he could be around back," Dean said in a low voice, rain skipping and splashing off of his lips. "You follow me. Stay close."

"I know what to do," Sophie snapped.

"Listen to me," Dean rotated, grabbing her arm. "This is about getting your niece out, not killing Rena."

Sophie's eyes flashed and Dean felt his breath stutter in his chest.

"For you, maybe." Her voice was a low growl.

She pulled from his grip and turned her attention back to the house. The force of the storm increased bringing with it a low rumble of thunder and quick flashes of lightning that bisected the unnatural dark. Dean moved in a quick, low jog along the fence line to the back door of Kat's house. Sophie was as close to him as his non-existent shadow.

The house was dark—the entire block was dark. Lightning had stolen the power, giving them a perfect cloak. Dean crept up to the door, cringing when he noted that it was ajar. Easing it open, he pulled the 9mm from his waistband and flicked the safety off. He moved carefully through the darkened kitchen, the house silent except for the beating of the rain against the metal roof.

Reaching the doorway, Dean motioned Sophie to flank him. She obeyed, her knife up and ready, her fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt. Dean ducked his head around the corner, looking quickly in both directions down an empty, dark hallway. He crossed the threshold and moved into a living room.

Immediately, his eyes caught the motion of two figures across the room from him, moving from the opened front door to the stairs at his right.

"Stop," he barked, leveling the 9mm at the front figure. "Don't even think about it."

"Sam—get the girl!"

"What? No! That's—"

"Get the hell up there and get the girl," the first figure barked, shoving the taller figure with one hand, firing at Dean with the other.

Time slowed.

Dean was aware of the deafening _pop pop pop_ of the gun fired in the close quarter of the house, saw the muzzle flash as the bullets exited the barrel, knew they were heading for him, but he was paralyzed. His gun was up, finger frozen on the trigger.

_Sam…_

The rolling ache in his head intensified and he stumbled forward into the path of the bullets. He jerked sideways as one tore through the leather jacket, burrowing a deep groove across the top of his left arm. The new pain shocked him into action. He blinked burning eyes and squeezed the trigger of the HK, aiming at the light from the muzzle of the other gun.

"Shit!" He heard a cry after his fourth shot and the figure rotated, ducking behind a far wall.

"Dean!" Sophie yelled.

Time kicked back into its regular motion and Dean shot a look over his shoulder. "Stay there!" he barked, moving after the figure he assumed was Ben Rena. "You stay there!"

"They're getting her!" Sophie practically screeched. She rolled away from the protection of the wall and headed toward the stairs where the lanky figure had gone.

"Sophie, goddammit—"

Dean ducked as more bullets came their way. He tucked in behind a chair, feeling the furniture jerk and stutter as it absorbed the impact of the bullets. He stuck his hand around the chair and fired back, counting down in his head. He had six rounds left.

"You don't know who you're fighting for, kid," Rena yelled at him.

Dean heard the click of metal on metal as Rena reloaded.

"Is that right?" Dean replied, searching the dark room for Sophie, finding her behind a bookcase, her switchblade out and held by the hilt.

"She is a monster," Rena said, and Dean shifted his eyes to the room where the man was hiding.

"Funny," Dean grunted, sliding, moving, working his way over to Sophie. "She says the same thing about you."

Rena barked out a harsh laugh. "I'm getting that girl."

"My ass you are," Dean shot back.

"I'm getting her," Rena repeated, "and then she's gonna give him over to me."

_Him?_

Dean searched for Sophie, catching Rena's movement out of the corner of his eyes. He turned, bringing his gun up. The silver of Sophie's knife caught a timely flash of lightning as it sailed through the air, embedding itself in Rena's right hand.

"Shit!" Rena screamed, and Dean heard the gun clatter to the ground.

He took a step closer, his gun trained on the area he'd last seen Rena. The large man stood, clutching his wounded hand, closer than Dean had realized. Dean blinked. He suddenly knew he'd seen Rena before… he recognized the strangely curly black hair, the sallow face, the thin mustache. Spit collected on Rena's lips as he grasped Sophie's knife and pulled it slowly from his hand, then dropped it with a dull clatter on the floor.

"I am gonna kill that bitch," Rena growled, his right hand curled in a painful-looking claw, blood gathering in his palm and dripping over the edge.

Dean leveled his gun. "'Fraid I can't let you do that."

"Sam's gonna get that girl," Rena spat. "He's got her by now."

_Sam…_ Dean's head split, the pain making him falter, making him hiss, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second too long. He forced his eyes open and saw Rena gripping a smaller, but just as deadly gun in his left hand, pointing it right at Dean's head.

"I don't know why you changed sides. I don't really give a damn. But I'm gonna get him, and you're not getting in my way."

"What?" Dean gasped, confused. Rena talked as though Dean should know who he was after—who Sophie would give up in exchange for her niece.

Rena cocked the gun. "Sam?" he called, lifting his eyes to the stairs.

Dean cried out as the name crashed into him. He clutched his head with his left hand, pressing against the pressure that threatened to split his skull starting between his eyes. Sam didn't answer. It was silent upstairs. It was silent behind him. It was chaos in his mind.

"L-looks like… you're wrong," Dean managed, dropping his hand, his gun faltering.

Rena took a step back. "Sam!"

"He's gone, man," Dean said, steadying his gun. "J-just go… just leave her alone."

"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" Rena growled, taking another step back, closer to the front door. "Leave her _alone_? I haven't even started to mess with that bitch."

Dean knew Rena was going to fire, but his head echoed with one word, blocking out instinct, blocking out thought, blocking out reaction.

_Sam…_

He suddenly caught the unmistakable scent of burning flesh. It came from behind, and he turned as he heard an odd _shink shink shink._ Sophie had reached across her body, jerking three throwing knives by their cross-shaped hilts and in quick succession had thrown them at Rena, not hitting him, hitting the wall instead, but knocking him off-balance as he stumbled away, his dead-center shot at Dean going wild.

"Soph—"

"Move!" She ordered, reaching for Dean, pulling him to her.

Dean heard Rena's hammer click, heard the bullet eject from the chamber, knew it was going to hit him, that he wasn't going to dodge this one. Faster than he thought possible, Sophie rotated her body, moving in front of him. The bullet slammed into her from behind, knocking her into his arms.

"No," he breathed, dropping the gun, going to his knees in the dark living room, Sophie's limp body in his arms. "Oh shit… shit shit shit…"

"This isn't over, Winchester," Rena growled, shocking Dean with his own name. Rena stepped through the front door and into the rain, gripping his bloody hand awkwardly with its mate, leaving behind the girl and… _Sam_…

"Sophie?" Dean grasped the back of her neck, tipping her head back. _Please please please… _Her eyes fluttered, rolling beneath her closed lids. "Son of a bitch," he breathed as a twisted prayer of thanks. He grabbed the 9mm and tucked it into the pocket of the leather jacket, the barrel still too hot to slide against his skin in his waistband.

He gathered her up against him, grimacing as he felt the stinging pull of the bullet groove on his left shoulder, and shifted from his knees to balance on the balls of his feet. He ducked, tipping her forward and over his right shoulder so that he kept his left arm burden-free, then with a groan of effort, pushed himself to his feet and turned to head out the back door. The rain beat an instant rhythm against his face, filling his eyes, blurring his vision.

_Sam…_

"Sophie, hang on," Dean said softly, using the sound of his voice to block out the echo of that name. "Just hang on… I'm pretty sure I know a thing or two about gunshot wounds… don't ask me why… okay, here's your bike… friggin' rain… okay, just, whoa, don't slide off… okay, there you go…"

He set Sophie sideways on the bike, swinging his leg over the back, and held her with the curve of his body and his chin as he turned the key and kick-started the bike. He tipped it upright, pulling the stand up with the heel of his boot, and balanced the machine between his legs. Groaning, he wrapped his wounded arm around the front of Sophie's limp form, gripping the low handle bar of the bike with his right.

"Too bad this thing can't just find its way home," he muttered.

_Sam…_

"Stop it… _shut up shut up shut up_…" He couldn't let the pain win, couldn't let it sweep over him as it threatened. He had to get them out of there, get them back, get her home. It never occurred to him to take her to an ER… his every instinct told him just to _get home_, get back.

He blinked the rain from his eyes, trying to navigate the path Sophie had taken, bypassing the shady pawn shop, turning down one road, realizing he'd chosen wrong, turning around and heading the other way. After what seemed like hours but in reality was the space of about fifteen minutes, he saw _Beckett's Cotton_ warehouse. He was shivering, his teeth chattering, his hand frozen to the handle bar, blood hot on his shoulder, causing his head to spin in a sickening lurch as he turned down the alley.

He pulled over, shutting off the bike, and forced his hand to open, forced his arm to bend. He could see blood on his jeans.

"Dammit," he growled, holding Sophie against him and swinging his leg over the back of the bike. Tucking low once more, he shifted Sophie over his shoulder, and shoved himself upright on shaky legs.

He struggled for a moment with the door to the building, cursing as his cold, wet fingers slipped on the metal handle and sent him stumbling back. He held Sophie's legs with his right hand, trying to force his left to obey him, even as it rebelled, weak and trembling. Finally gripping the edge of the door, he was able to swing it open wide enough to maneuver them through.

_Sam…_ Easy eyes, a crooked smile, long, shaggy bangs swinging low. The pain in his head was intense.

"Aw, Christ," Dean stumbled against the wall, his left shoulder bouncing and skittering, leaving a smear of blood in his wake. He gripped his head as the pain grew, blinding him, suffocating him as he tried to breathe through it, tried to compel it away.

Sophie shifted on his shoulder and he tightened his grip. He could see her apartment door.

"Just move, Dean," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Do it. _Do it_, you friggin' pussy."

He continued down the hall, shoulder against the wall, a trail of blood behind him, the fingers of his right hand gripping Sophie's leg hard enough to bruise. He reached her door and tried the handle. Locked.

"You gotta be kiddin' me…"

He knew she had to have the keys somewhere, but he didn't have the balance or patience to look. He took a step back and slammed his foot at the lock, blasting the door open. He would apologize later. He stumbled through, kicking the door somewhat closed behind him, staggering to the bedroom, and unceremoniously dropped Sophie from his shoulder to the bed, falling to his knees on the floor beside the bed. He heard the music from the other room—the rotation still rolling through her series of CDs… keeping the rats away.

_"Scared to death, no reason why. Do whatever to get me by. Think about the things I've said. Read the page it's cold and dead…"_

He pressed his forehead against her clean-smelling sheets, allowing himself a moment to breathe. He was shaking from the inside out. Rain water soaked through the sheets from Sophie's body and his face. His left arm was heavy with pain; the blood that flowed from the furrow the bullet had cut was the only warmth on his body. Panting, his breath sawing out through his raw throat, Dean pulled a clumsy hand from the ground and pressed it on the edge of her bed, pushing his head up and way.

Sophie lay pale and still. He didn't understand why she'd done that… she'd stepped in front of the bullet… for _him_. He reached for her, his movements hampered by the wet leather of his jacket. Shrugging out of it, he growled at the pain that coursed up his arm. The bandages wrapped around the burn had been protected from the rain, but blood was soaking into the gauze from his shoulder and starting to sting the tender blisters hidden underneath. He pulled the gun and extra clips from the pocket, setting them on top of the dresser, then dropped the coat in a heap on the floor beside her bed.

Leaning over Sophie, he carefully rolled her first one way, then the other, working with uncooperative fingers to ease her out of the knife-lined coat. Her right hand flopped limply against his leg and he saw a red, cross-shaped burn along the inside of her fingers and teasing the edge of her palm. He frowned, something tickling the back of his mind, but was distracted by the sight of the back of her white T-shirt. It was gory with blood. Dean swallowed.

"Jesus, Sophie," he whispered. "What the hell were you thinking?"

He carefully lifted her T-shirt up, easing her arms from the sleeves, and pulled it over her wet hair. His left arm was trembling badly; he was unable to force his fingers to obey. He dropped the wet T-shirt on the floor, leaving Sophie clad in her jeans and bra. Rolling her to her stomach, he looked at the wound in her back. _There's too much blood… I can't_…

Turning quickly, he reached out to steady himself against the dresser as the world took its sweet time following his movement. He headed to the bathroom, his wet, dark T-shirt clinging to him in patches across the plane of his stomach and against the small of his back. He grabbed a towel, wet it with warm water, then returned to Sophie.

As carefully as he could, he wiped away the blood, exposing an intricate tattoo that covered much of her lower back. There were words woven through a series of Celtic-looking crosses. He continued to clean the blood away when words at the end of the tattoo caught his eye.

_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..._

"Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit…" Dean read, softly.

Sophie stirred.

"Shh," he soothed. "Easy, Sophie, I got you…"

He continued to clean away the blood, blinking as he found the wound, staring stupidly at the jagged flesh, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

The bullet hole was closing up.

Dean pulled his hand back, staring. The wound had destroyed one of the larger crosses on her tattoo, marring the words etched there. As the flesh gathered, sealing, showing no sign of the intrusion of the metal into her body, words fused back together and Dean saw that it was a message. _Captus hic , reverto domum…_

"Captured here… returned to home…"

"Don't!"

Sophie's voice was ragged, her movement slow as she rolled away. Dean knew she shouldn't even be able to move at all. She rolled to her side, pushing away from him, across the bed, pressing her back against the wall.

"What the fu—"

"Don't read it…" she interrupted, swallowing hard.

"What the hell is going on, Sophie?" Dean's voice was hard, his eyes hot.

Sophie's eyes, sharp in their color, slid from his face to his shoulder. "You're bleeding."

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean snapped, pushing away the hand that reached out to him. "What the _hell_ is going on?"

Sophie twisted, looking at her lower back, swiping her hand there. From her motion, Dean could tell that the wound had completed its self-repair. Using the bed for support, he pushed himself to his feet, stepping back and away from her. The room shifted, tilting sideways as his thoughts rushed to beat each other to the front of his brain.

"It's a spell, isn't it?"

Sophie stood, looked down at her bared stomach and turned to her closet to get a shirt.

"Peace depart and evil roam?"

Sophie whipped back around. "I said, don't! Don't read it!"

"What is it, Sophie?" Dean took a step forward, grabbing her arm roughly in his right hand, shaking her hard. "What are _you_?"

"You won't believe me," she shook her head, her wet bangs fanning across her forehead.

"Try me," he said, dangerous, low.

"I told you the truth… Dean, I promise, I told you the truth about Rena," Sophie hedged.

"I don't give a shit about Rena," Dean snapped, wrenching her up close to him until her chest touched his, his eyes boring into hers. His grip on her arm was almost cruel. "I want to know about you. The _truth_."

"I—I…" She looked scared, uncertain, and then with a blink, emotion vacated her eyes, leaving in its wake a look of surrender. "I was born in 1917."

Dean stared, not releasing her, not quite comprehending.

"I died in 1942," Sophie continued. "I wandered until 1992, when I found m-my… my great-niece… I made a deal… and got my soul."

"_Fuck_," Dean whispered as knowing slowly dawned inside of him. He tightened his trembling left hand into a fist, growling out accusingly, "You're a vampire."

"Yes."

"Son of a _bitch_." He released her arm, turning from her. He literally felt the facts slide into place, heard them click. He should have known… how did he miss it? The strength she displayed, the shift of her eyes, the exhaustion during the day… _hell, I smelled her flesh burning when she grabbed the crosses on her knives…_ "So Rena was right. You _are_ the monster."

"No!" Sophie grabbed his good arm, pulling him around by the edges of his wet T-shirt. "When I got my soul, I lost the monster… Dean, that's what the spell is… it… it keeps it inside."

"A soul doesn't cancel out evil," Dean snapped. "You can't just erase… fifty years of—"

"Don't you think I know that?!" Sophie turned from him, her ponytail swinging in a wet swath across her bare back, brushing the top of the tattoo. "I've spent the last fifteen years trying to atone for fifty years of death. I—I have spells and messages that keep me here, keep Kat safe… _from me_."

Sophie turned and faced him, her eyes flashing to his wounded arm. Dean followed her gaze, seeing the blood from the bullet wound wind down his arm in a twisted, wet trail, soaking through the white bandage that covered his burns, dripping from the tip of his little finger. He looked back at her, watching as her eyes flashed vivid-blue.

"This turning you on?" Dean said, his voice a quiet tease. He lifted his arm, giving her a good look at the blood. "Mouth watering yet?"

"Don't be an idiot," Sophie snapped. "If I wanted you I could have taken you while you slept."

"Why'd you wait, Sophie? Hoping Rena would finish me off… then you could snack on us both?"

"Stop it."

"You're a monster, Sophie."

"You're an asshole, Dean."

"Truth hurts, Sweetheart," Dean lowered his arm, spreading his hands wide.

"Dammit," Sophie turned away, then back quickly as if not trusting him to _not_ read the spell. "I knew I saved the wrong one."

Dean felt himself go cold. His fingertips tingled. His lips were numb. He stared hard at her; around Sophie, the walls shifted, the floor rotated, the world spun.

_Sam…_

"What did you say?"

"Forget it. Just… just get the hell out."

"No," Dean stepped up to her, grabbing her by the throat in a quick grip, forcing her back against the wall and holding her there. She didn't fight him. "What did you mean… the wrong one?"

Sophie blinked at him. "At the cabin… I only had time to grab… one of you."

"Me or Rena?"

"No."

_Sam…_

"Sophie," he warned. "I'll get it out of you one way or another."

She narrowed her eyes at that, anger flashing quick and bright. "Go to hell, Winchester."

He opened his mouth to retort but closed it again quickly when her small, powerful fist bore into his unprotected mid-section. He released her throat, doubling over as the air rushed out of him. His head throbbed and he backed away. He brought his eyes up just in time to see her foot swing for his head.

Pure instinct shot his hand forward, catching her foot and twisting her leg, knocking her off balance. She landed on her back, reaching behind herself to vault to her feet in a crab-like flip. They faced each other, crouched, hands out, knees bent, eyes fierce. Dean knew he was at a distinct disadvantage: his head throbbed, his left arm was nearly useless, he was lightheaded from blood loss... and he was facing a vampire.

"I wish you'd just done what I said," Sophie said softly, crossing her feet as she circled him.

"What, kill a human?" Dean circled in the opposite direction. "Not likely."

"You've done it before," Sophie accused.

This stopped him. _He had?_

"I know more about you than you know about yourself," she continued. "I've studied you, watched you… always best to know your enemies, don't you think?"

_Killing that guy… killing Meg… I didn't hesitate, I didn't even flinch…_

"Guuhh!" Dean folded his face in a grimace of pain, reaching up to grab his forehead.

Sophie stopped circling him, straightening, waiting. Dean tried to stand up, but the pain bowed him. He pressed the palm of his hand into his eye.

"W-who…" he tried, swallowing the roll of nausea that enveloped him. "Who is Sam?"

Sophie seemed to deflate. He squinted at her. _Aw, God, this hurts…_

"Dean…" Her voice was soft, sad. All of her anger seemed to leak out of her on an exhale.

"Sophie, goddammit…" Dean growled. "Who. Is. Sam?"

"He's your brother, Dean."

_Brother…_

The pain in his head rocked him, took him to his knees. He wanted to cry out, but the pain stole his breath, scooped out his heart.

_Sam…_

Images rushed through him, searing him, burning his eyes. He wasn't aware of Sophie's hands on his shoulders, of her soothing words of comfort. He wasn't aware of the hard surface of the floor as his face slammed against it. He was only aware of a pair of easy eyes, a crooked grin, shaggy hair, and a voice… a constant, familiar voice.

_I gotta find Dad… it's all I can think about…_

A baby in his arms, cool grass beneath bare feet, fire in a window…

_You're my brother… and I'd die for you…_

School books, basketball in an empty lot, a five-year-old shadow…

_Because… I know who it is… I can see her now…_

A letter, a bus ticket, a fight, an empty room…

_You and me, we're all that's left… So, if we're going to see this through, we're gonna do it together…_

Fighting in rhythm, a partner next to him, an ally, his job, his responsibility…

_I wish I could have that kind of innocence…_

Pressing his face into the floor, Dean gasped, crying out from the pain, from the loss…

_Sam…_

The darkness was cool and sweet as it took him, ending the voices, ending the heat, ending the chaos...

www

He was lying on the floor. He felt weak, shaky, scared. He blinked, blurred vision distorting his surroundings. His chest ached, and he felt the sticky wetness of blood beneath his folded arms. _Dad… Sam…_

"I'm right here, Dean," Sam's voice was trembling.

"Where's Dad?" He was dizzy, weak, confused. He'd heard that shot, heard the screaming.

"He's okay," Sam looked over his shoulder. "He will be anyway."

"Who was screaming?"

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said, and Dean heard tears. "I need to get you out of here."

"Did…" his head spun, his chest throbbed. "Did it go? Is it gone?" His voice sounded weak in his ears.

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "It's gone."

Then Dean remembered. The black cloud erupting from his father's mouth. His father's back arching, then sinking to the ground with a whimper. Sam cupped the back of his neck, helping him roll carefully to a sitting position and suddenly he was in a junkyard, under the Impala, a wrench in his hand, sweat on his face, grit on his neck.

Blinking, confused, he dug the heels of his boots in and rolled on the dolly from beneath the car. Sam was standing there, his face serious, his eyes sad. He was telling Dean that he was right… about… something. Dean couldn't hear him, something was in the way, something was beeping, harsh, loud, incessant.

"I'm not alright," Sam was saying. "Not at all… but neither are you, that much I know."

Sam walked away and Dean felt hollowed out, empty, angry, betrayed, heavy. He wanted to scream, he wanted to run. He wanted to hit something, hurt something, break something as thoroughly as he was broken. Before he knew it, he was beating on the Impala's trunk with a tire iron. Beating with everything inside of him, beating until his shoulders burned, his eyes burned, his hands burned.

He swung the tire iron down once more and it became a chainsaw. He watched as the rotating teeth of the blade cut into the neck of a vampire, blood spurting up and splashing his face, hot and satisfying. He pressed until the blade chewed through the vamps neck, severing the spinal cord, decapitating and killing the monster. It felt good, it felt right.

Straightening, he looked over at Sam. His brother's eyes were shocked, scared, and aimed at _him_. He started to reach out to Sam, to apologize, to comfort when suddenly a gun was in his hand and he was shooting a dark-haired woman dressed in white. Her grip on Sam's head released and she dropped back, only to pop up and rush him; with a slide born from years in the sandlot playing baseball, he followed her into her grave, shoving a spike through her chest.

"What's dead should _stay_ dead," he said, thinking that he should be in there with her. He should be the one who was gone, not… not… looking up, he tried to find Sam, ask him who was gone. But Sam wasn't there.

Instead there was another dark haired woman, her lips twisted into a smile, telling him to think about Evan, to think about his father. He opened his mouth to ask what his father had to do with anything and she reached up, cupping the back of his head and pressed her lips to his, sweeping the inside of his mouth with her tongue, tasting him.

"What was that for?" he asked, his head spinning.

"Sealing the deal."

"You know, I usually like to be warned before I'm violated with demon tongue."

She smirked and Dean blinked. She was a black man, threatening Sam. He wasn't quite sure what was going on, but _nobody_ threatened Sam.

"I'm gonna say this one time. You make a move on him, you'll be dead before you hit the ground. You understand me? Do I make myself _clear_?!"

"Dean!" Sam called and Dean tried to turn, but he was tied to a chair, a gag in his mouth and sudden, intense fear in his heart as the room behind him exploded.

"SAM!" he screamed through his gag. It was silent, and a different black man stood next to him, waiting until the second explosion rocked the small building they were in, sending wooden flack raining down around him.

Minutes stretched and then Sam was there, bleeding, but alive, and untying him. _Don't leave me again, Sam… don't you do it… I can't take it…_

Sam stood up and pulled Dean with him. Dean turned Sam's face to inspect his wounds, then rotated to go kill Gordon. Sam reached out, grabbing his arm and pushed him back and away.

"No, Dean, don't!"

It was a warning, a plea. It was too late. The cabin was rigged. Rigged for the vamp, and Rena let them walk into it. Let them walk through the front door, let Dean kick in the bedroom door one second before his brother cried out a warning. The force of the blast threw him back, away from Sam, away from the bedroom, toward the front door.

He was burning… his face burned, his arm burned… flames licked his legs, stole his breath. And then she was there. Pulling him away. Saving him.

www

His eyes were heavy with the weight of memory. With a supreme effort, he forced them open, trying to make sense of the sensations that trickled slowly through the silence, through the black. Soft material beneath his hands, cushioning his aching body, the smell of Ivory soap in his nose, the hot, rolling agony in his arm, the pressure on his chest.

As he pulled his surroundings into focus, he realized that he lay on her bed. Sophie sat next to him, a buttoned-up, short-sleeved black shirt covering her, her wet hair hanging around her face, her eyes on his shoulder. She was wrapping the bullet wound on his shoulder. Music played in the background, but he was too dizzy to concentrate on the words. His shirt was still damp and felt molded to his body.

"Where's Sam?"

Sophie jumped. "Hey," she said softly. "You okay?"

"Where is he?" His voice was barely a whisper, the effort to speak taking its toll. He gripped the bed with his fingers, trying to hold on as it tilted, trying to stay still as the world threatened to throw him off, toss him into space, leave him alone and cold in the dark.

"What just happened, Dean?" Sophie asked. "You looked like you were having some kind of seizure… you wouldn't stop shaking."

"Where is Sam?" he repeated. He needed to see his brother. The holes in his memory were slowly filling up, but without Sam… without his brother he'd never be himself.

Sophie sighed. "I don't know."

"Tell me." He tried to move, but his body refused. The hungry fingers of gravity held him fast.

"Until Ben Rena said his name back at Kat's… I thought he'd been killed in the fire."

Dean groaned slightly, closing his eyes. "I can't believe I forgot him."

"You forgot everything," Sophie argued.

But that hadn't been true. He remembered how he took his coffee, he remembered song lyrics, remembered how to balance a knife, he remembered how to dismantle and reassemble a gun, he remembered making his ring…

"I should have remembered Sam," Dean whispered. He tried again to sit up. _Aw, God…_ "I gotta find him."

"You will," Sophie promised, placing a calming hand on his chest. "Rest first."

"Gotta… find him…" He felt the weight on his chest and wanted to push her hand away. He wanted to breathe… just breathe… why the hell couldn't he _breathe_?

"Dean," Sophie whispered, leaning close to his face, her eyes a soft gray. "Calm down… Hey, hey, just… just take a breath… that's it… take it easy. Rest… we'll find both of them. Sam _and_ Kat."

"I have to… protect him," Dean managed. His eyes burned. "Dad told me… told me to watch out for him…" The world shifted again, and he felt his heartbeat echo in his head, pound through his arm.

"You will," Sophie said. "You will." She closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his forehead. "Sleep. Just for a little bit."

His eyes fell closed of their own accord at the touch of her mouth on his face. He knew what she was… knew what she'd done… yet her lips felt cool, felt comforting…

"We have to go back," he whispered.

"Back?"

"Back to Kat's."

"But they… they took her…"

"Sam…" Dean rolled his eyes under his heavy lids, forcing them open. _God _he ached. "Sam knew I was there… knew it was me…"

"Yeah, and…"

"He would have gotten her safe, gotten her out of there."

"And you know where he would have gone?"

"No."

Sophie frowned into his eyes.

"But he would have left me something."

"Like?"

"A message."

"You're sure about this?" Sophie straightened.

Dean blinked his eyes shut, surrendering to gravity, giving in to exhaustion.

"Dean?"

He heard her, but he couldn't have answered if his life depended on it. _I remember you…_

www

"No, no, he's here…"

He was floating.

"I know—I _know_, okay?"

The voice was clear, the words precise. He listened, curious.

"Don't worry. He needs me. He's not gonna get rid of me until he gets his brother."

The voice started to fade as if the speaker was walking away. He turned to follow it and fire lit up his arm, shocking him awake. His eyes snapped open and he looked around. He was still lying on Sophie's bed, but pale, gray light from the early morning was shimmering through the paper-covered windows in the living room, sifting through the opened door of the bedroom.

Realizing that he'd slept through another night, he rolled to his right arm, slowly leveraging himself up by his elbow to a sitting position.

"I gotta quit doin' that…" He mumbled to himself, rubbing his face, gingerly avoiding the cut above his left eye.

She'd not removed any of his clothes this time. His left arm now sported two clean white bandages, and there were three ibuprofen lying next to a glass of water on the dresser.

He swallowed the pain meds and gulped the water greedily, then turned his attention to the voice in the next room. She was on the phone with someone he realized by the half-spoken sentences, the long pauses of silence. From the rhythm of her speech he surmised it was that contact she'd referred to earlier.

It was only when he heard her sigh into the phone that he realized the constant background noise of music was missing. He sat on the edge of the bed, listening as she muttered "uh-huh" to the person on the other end. An almost metallic sound announced the CD's rotation and soon Dean heard a soulful electric guitar.

_"A fugitive soul out on parole. Standing alone, no, where can I go? In a world so cold with no hand to hold, searching through my heart, yeah, but nobody knows…"_

Under the cover of music, he bit back a groan and pushed himself to his feet, staggering to the bathroom and closing the door behind him. His left hand felt twice its normal size; unfastening his jeans to take care of business was an effort in coordination. His entire arm pulsed with the unique beat of uninterrupted pain.

"Need coffee…" he groaned. Coffee could fix just about anything. Coffee or whiskey.

He was tired. Weary, but awake. He felt a strange sort of distance to his own body: in it, but not _of _it. He decided to skip the shower; re-bandaging his arm was not high on his list of priorities at the moment and the salve she'd put on his burn actually took the sharp, stinging pain away. He grabbed a cloth, reached behind his shoulders with his right hand and pulled the now-dry black T-shirt over his head, and scrubbed away the sweat and blood. Using his finger and Sophie's toothpaste, he cleaned the grimy taste from his mouth, then lifted his eyes to meet his own reflection.

"Dean, you've had better days… can't remember them right now, but…"

He looked like death.

His skin was pale, and the freckles that he now remembered hating stood out across his nose. Purple shadows contrasted sharply with wary green eyes and the scruff of beard that had been visible yesterday was prominent today. He scratched at his jaw line with the backs of his fingers, smoothing his hand, finger to thumb, over his mouth and feeling the bristly hair against his palm.

_The first time Sam shaved he'd cut himself eight times. _

Dean's vision blurred as he recalled coming into the bathroom at Sam's cry of surprised pain and feeling a moment of panic at bloody marks on his little brother's face. He had cleaned him up and two weeks later—because it had taken that long for Sam to grow anything _worth_ shaving—had taught his brother how to use a straight razor.

_"Why can't we just use one of those handle razors? Like the guys at school?" Sam had asked, eyeing the straight razor with trepidation._

_"Because, Sam," Dean had patiently explained, forced to stand to the side of his sixteen-year-old brother's lanky frame so that he could see his own face in the mirror next to Sam's. "You know how we live. Those aren't always an option. And a straight razor has… multiple uses."_

_"Dude! Gross—you shave with something you used to…"_

_"Don't be such a girl, Sammy. A blade's a blade. You just clean it up, keep it sharp, and take care of what you need to take care of."_

Sam had met his eyes in the mirror and Dean remembered watching disgust fade to wonder and then meld with his own expression of flat resolve.

He pulled on the same T-shirt and squared his shoulders. The pain meds were kicking in—the bone-deep ache in his arm had dulled to a tolerable throb and he found that he was able to curl his fingers of his left hand into a weak fist. Rubbing his right hand over the top of his hair, he turned and exited the bathroom. The bedroom was still empty. Dean crossed to the dresser, picked up the 9mm and three extra clips, tucked them into his waistband and pockets, then headed to the living room.

Sophie stood facing one of the paper-covered windows, her arms wrapped around herself. The gray light of dawn threw word-shaped shadows across the bare wood floor beneath the window. Paul Rodger's smoky voice mocked him as he stared at her.

_"Everyday of her life, she's been living in a fantasy world, chasing her dreams, so close she could scream. Inside she's just a little lost girl…"_

"I'm going to find my brother," Dean said over the music.

Sophie jumped, turning to face him, her ponytail swinging over her shoulder.

"I didn't hear you come in," she said, her eyes wide.

Dean said nothing. She was a vampire. One of the hunted. One of the monsters. He should never have trusted her—had he been in his right mind, he would never have made that mistake. She'd lied to him, used him, taken advantage of him.

Although, he had to admit… he probably would have done the same thing in her situation. Desperation digs into the dark side of the soul and pulls out qualities that are better left buried.

"Listen—" Sophie started.

Dean shook his head. "I'm going back to Kat's."

"Not without me, you're not."

"No way. You're lucky I'm letting you stand there." Dean shifted his eyes to the light from the windows behind her. "Besides… you'll just slow me down."

Sophie swallowed. "He's still out there," she protested. "What are you gonna do?"

"About Rena?" Dean shrugged. "Nothing."

"You're just gonna leave him out there?"

"He doesn't matter to me."

"Well, he sure as hell matters to _me_."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Somehow, I can't bring myself to care."

Sophie dropped her arms and Dean saw an empty sheath strapped to her right forearm. _For her switchblade_, he realized. His mind flashed to her knife in the kitchen. To the knives in her coat. _Cross-shaped hilts… _She purposely used cross-shaped hilts with her throwing knives, knowing that their touch would burn her. _Why?_

"Dean," she took a step forward. "I told you the truth."

"Oh really?" Dean scoffed. "I must have missed that part."

"You _are_ an assassin—you do kill for a living."

"Not the same thing," Dean shook his head.

"It is to me," Sophie pointed out. "If I'd told you who…_what_ I was, would you have helped me?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply, then shut it quickly as a throb behind his eye warned a heartbeat before Sam's voice broke like a wave of memory in his head.

_I don't think they're like other vampires. I don't think they're killing people._

"Dean?"

He turned away from her, heading toward the kitchen.

_No, Dean. That is not our job. Our job is hunting evil and if these things aren't killing people, they're not evil._

Dean staggered against the kitchen doorway, catching his breath.

"You okay?"

"Back off, Sophie."

_You're tail spinning, man, and you won't let me help you…_

"Dean, listen, my contact—"

"Just shut the hell up for a second," Dean panted, gripping his head, his right shoulder against the doorway the only thing that held him upright.

_The way he raised us to hate those things, and man, I hate them, I do. When I killed that vampire at the mill, I didn't even think about it. Hell, I even enjoyed it._

He'd hit Sam… _hit Sam_. He could still feel the frustrated rage, the uneven balance that fueled that punch. It didn't make sense to him; he remembered seeing Sam's self-righteous eyes, hearing Sam's argument, and feeling an anger fueled by one confusing thought: _if you only knew what he said_…

Growling low in his throat, Dean moved over to the counter where Sophie had brewed a pot of coffee and set out two mugs earlier. He poured a cup and breathed in the heady aroma before gulping down one scalding swallow. Something was missing… something was _wrong_. Something other than forgetting Sam… something… worse.

As if caffeine were whiskey, bracing him for what he needed to do, he belted another mouthful of coffee, then turned to face Sophie, resting the small of his back against the sink.

"Ben Rena is a hunter," Dean said, gripping the hot mug with his right hand and staring with angry eyes at Sophie. "Like me."

Sophie shook her head. "No, not like you."

She leaned against the kitchen door, mirroring his earlier position. Her eyes were gray and pleading, her lower lip trembling slightly. Dean pressed his lips together, gingerly flexing the muscles in his left arm. Had it not been for Sophie, he would be dead, burned alive in a fire set by betrayal.

"You want me to help you?"

"Yes."

"Then you give it to me straight, all of it, right now," Dean pointed his index finger at her. "And if I find out you lied—about anything—no friggin' _soul_ is gonna save you."

Sophie swallowed, then moved slowly to the table in the breakfast nook. Dean's eyes lit on the knife he'd left lying there. Distractedly, Sophie simply slid the weapon back into the sheath beneath the table, then turned to face Dean, her arms resting on her knees, hands folded as if in prayer.

"My h-husband was a Captain in the Army during World War II," she began. Her eyes remained fixed to the floor, her shoulders taunt. As she spoke, she began to twist the slim silver band he'd noticed on her hand when he'd first seen her.

"My father, my two brothers, and one of my brothers-in-law were all in the war. None of them returned. My husband did."

He watched as she pulled in her lower lip.

"Well, his body did… he'd… he'd been in France and… he'd changed."

She tilted her head, her eyes far away, but she still didn't look at him.

"I didn't realize until it was too late—and even then I didn't believe." She laughed a soft, mirthless laugh. "Who believes that things like me exist, really?"

_Vampires? I thought there was no such thing… I thought they were extinct. I thought Elkins and others had wiped them out. I was wrong…_

Dean swallowed as his father's voice answered his own. His jaw ached as he clenched it against the dull pain that followed the flicker of memory. He resisted the urge to press his hand against his heart, a pang of longing for his father so real, so potent, that it confused him.

"He came home one night, made love to me, slept all day, dressed in that… the jacket you had on… then told me that he'd found a way to defeat death."

She stood up and walked over to stand at the doorway, her back to him. "He said he knew that the death of my father and brothers is what killed my mother—not pneumonia like the doctors had said. He said he knew that my sister would die from the loss of her husband. He said he didn't want us to go through that and then he…"

"Fanged out?" Dean supplied when her voice faltered.

Sophie dropped her head. "Yeah."

Dean finished his coffee, watching, trying not to care, trying not to let her words, the set of her shoulders, the tone of her voice affect him. Daylight shone bright and clear through the filter of words at her windows. In the pause of Sophie's voice and between music tracks, Dean heard the sounds of the people around her, muted voices, banging pipes, footsteps.

_"Once upon a time, I was of the mind to lay your burden down. Leave you where you stood, you believed I could, you'd seen it done before…"_

"I never even thought to fight him off," she continued when the music started once more. "He was my husband, for Christ's sake. I can still remember dying… everything was… numb and… cold… and I felt my heart stop and felt my lungs freeze… and yet… I was still aware. I tasted his blood… his blood tasted different from any other that I've had since. It was… sweet."

Dean curled his lip in disgust but remained silent.

"H-he… he killed my sister. Her husband. Their children. Told me it was necessary—they hadn't wanted to join us, so they couldn't be allowed to live. He taught me to be discreet, to stay under the radar, to hide and watch."

Sophie turned so that her back was against the door frame, her arms wrapped around her waist, her eyes on the paper-covered windows in the other room.

"He told me we were all that was left—we didn't have any family, and our friends were others like us. I believed him. I followed him. I even… I even loved him. He was my only family, and I was strong with him."

_We're stronger as a family, Dad, we just are, you know it._

Dean closed his eyes, rubbing his lids with the tips of his fingers, watching the sparks of orange fly up under the pressure.

"I did horrible, awful things… things I can never atone for. There is no absolution for that kind of evil."

"What about Kat?" Dean asked in a strained voice.

Sophie pushed her bangs from her eyes, trailing her hand down her long hair, and twisting the ends around her fingers like a little girl.

"My familiar found Kat."

"Your… _what_?"

"My contact," Sophie looked over at him. "He watches out for—"

"I know what a familiar is," Dean snapped. "I just didn't… didn't think they were real."

Sophie lifted an eyebrow. "How do you think I survive without killing?"

"Honestly, I didn't really give it much thought," Dean said, his eyes flat.

Sophie sighed. "Anyway, he found Kat when she was ten. I didn't believe him—told him Wade wouldn't have lied to me. That everyone in my family was dead. But he insisted, and I didn't have reason to doubt him… so I checked it out. Turned out my sister who had been widowed during the war escaped from Wade. She had been pregnant, had a son, who in turn married and had a daughter. My sister and Kat's parents were killed when Kat was a baby and she'd been raised by foster parents."

"So you decided that you had to… what? Become her protector?"

"Something like that."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Why didn't you turn her?"

Sophie's eyes flashed. "I thought about it, but… then I saw her and I don't know why… but I couldn't bring myself to steal her life from her."

Dean drew his head back at that.

"I found a priest," Sophie continued.

"That must have been a pretty hefty feat—you in a church."

"You'd be surprised the kind of monsters you'd find in a church," Sophie lifted her eyebrow at him.

Dean snorted. "Don't bet on it," he said, shaking his head.

"This priest said that he could return my soul, but that it would come at a price."

"Eternity without forgiveness?"

"Wade."

Dean pulled his brows together. "Your husband?"

"The priest told me I had to… kill my… sire."

Dean tipped his lips down. "Impressive." He turned to the sink, setting his mug down, then turned back around, spreading his hands wide. "Tested your resolve and got rid of an evil all at the same time. Smart guy."

"Two evils."

"If you say so."

Sophie rolled her eyes. "Father Murphy thought so anyway."

Dean froze. "What did you say?"

"The priest… he told me that what he was doing would—"

"What was his name?" Dean felt air stutter in his chest.

"Murphy. Jim Murphy."

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed, rubbing a hand over his mouth, then up through his hair, rubbing distractedly at the back of his head.

"What?"

_Jim Murphy's dead… Throat was slashed, he bled out. Caleb said they found traces of sulfur at Jim's place…_

"Nothing," Dean grumbled.

"What, Dean?"

"W-we didn't call him… _Father_ _Murphy_…"

He pushed away from the sink, brushing past Sophie and walked out to the living room. _Pastor Jim…_ He saw a man with soft brown eyes and a forgiving smile, smaller than his dad, but somehow just as powerful. The holes of his memory slowly filled with more images, comforting and painful at the same time.

"Wait, you knew—"

"What the hell does all of this have to do with Rena? With me and… and Sam?" Dean interrupted, addressing Sophie but staring at the Latin written on the windows.

"Rena started tracking Wade and me about twenty years ago," Sophie said. "I don't know why he fixated on us, but he was… well, he was hard to shake. Wade wanted to kill him, but he was also hard to _find_. After Wade…" Sophie paused, then made her way into the living room, crossing to the couch and sitting down. "After I made the deal, I was able to elude Rena. I found this place, and my familiar and I put charms and spells on it to keep it hidden."

"You said that they kept Kat safe from you," Dean glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes.

"They do—I would never hurt her, but she doesn't need to know about me… doesn't need to know the truth of her past."

Dean chewed on his lower lip. "So… you think Rena wants to hold Kat hostage in exchange for your life."

Sophie sighed. "Yes… and I… I can't protect her anymore. Not from here. Not like this."

Dean shook his head. "Nah… something doesn't fit."

"Huh?" Sophie looked up at him. "I told you everything."

"Rena said that you were gonna give up _him_ back at Kat's house."

"Him? Him who?"

Dean shrugged. "Wade?"

Sophie straightened, looking at Dean. "You think this is about Wade?"

Dean turned to face her. "Makes sense, doesn't it? Your bloodthirsty husband did something to Rena… he's out for revenge."

Sophie frowned, looking away.

"Do you know who all Wade killed?" Dean asked.

"There were too many," Sophie said softly. "I wasn't… I wasn't always with him."

"Well, Sweetheart," Dean said, pushing his lips out in an expression of mock sympathy, "looks like you might have a debt to pay."

"What? My life for Kat's?" Sophie brought her head up.

Dean remained silent. Sophie's eyes sought his.

"Do you… do you think that would work?" she asked softly.

"It might."

Sophie rubbed her face. "I can't hang her life on _might_."

Dean tilted his head. "But… you'd do it?"

Sophie dropped her hands. "What?"

"Sacrifice yourself."

Her eyes shifted to the vivid-blue. "If it meant keeping Kat safe, hell yeah I'd do it."

_It fits, doesn't it? My life for his soul?_

Dean stumbled forward, rocked by the sudden memory, grabbing his head. "Sonuvabitch," he whispered through clenched teeth.

The memory shot through him like a hot poker bringing with it a black shadow. The words had been his, but they didn't fit anything, they didn't make sense. _Whose soul? Sam's?_ The pain flared, white-hot, and so bright that he pressed his hands over his eyes.

"Aw, Jesus," he whispered. "What the hell—"

"Dean?"

"No," he pushed Sophie's helping hand away. "NO! Stay back… stay away from me."

"I'm just trying to help!"

The razor-sharp edge of pain faded almost as quickly as it hit and he could see again. Panting, he pulled his hands away, blinking bleary-eyed at Sophie.

"I don't need your help," he said, trying to steady his breathing. "I need Sam."

"Well, we'll go—"

"No," Dean shook his head roughly, trying to clear it, trying to quell any flashes of memory. "No, Sophie, you'll just slow me down."

"This is _my_ fight, Dean."

"You made it mine when you dragged me out of that cabin and lied to me."

"You'd rather I let you burn?"

"I'd rather've been told the truth from the start."

Sophie rolled her eyes. "Hi, I'm a vampire with a soul and I need your help to save my niece from a hunter."

"See? Was that so hard?" Dean moved to step past her and hissed as she caught his arm, gripping his burn with fingers of iron.

"You _need_ my help," she growled.

Dean swallowed the bile that rose in his throat in reaction to the pain and straight armed her throat, knocking her back. With a barely-suppressed groan, he cradled his arm, bent over at the waist.

Sophie stumbled, grasping her throat and coughing.

"I _don't_ need your help," Dean rasped. "I need you to stay the hell away from me."

"You can't do everything alone," Sophie gasped, coughing violently.

Dean stepped back and away from her, toward the door. "I won't be alone," he said, shaking his head. "I'll have Sam."

"What if you can't find him?"

"I'll find him," Dean said. _I have to. _He started to drop his cradled arm, but as the blood flowed back into that extremity it throbbed painfully and he had to bite back a whimper. He held it against his chest.

"You can't keep me here," Sophie challenged stepping toward him.

"I wouldn't be too sure," Dean pulled his 9mm from his waistband and pointed it at her.

"That won't kill me," she reminded him.

"No," Dean shook his head. "But it'll hurt like hell."

"Dean, don't be stupid—"

He interrupted her when his back hit the broken door way. "Huic tractus quod huic vicis… "

"Wait!" Sophie's eyes darted, panicked.

Dean kicked the door open with his heel and stepped back through it, his gun steady on Sophie. "Moenia mos servo vos tutus secundum…"

"How the hell—"

"I know Latin, Sophie," Dean reminded her. "And I know I've been doing this shit for a long time. Si vos licentia lemma vos must teneo, illic est nusquam vobis praecessi."

"Dean!" Sophie charged the open doorway and was thrown backwards, landing solidly on her backside as if tossed there by an invisible hand. "Please!"

"That oughta hold you for awhile," he whispered, pulling the door closed, then turned and made his way down the darkened hall.

He exited into the alley, the bright sun of the day momentarily blinding him. He heard a dim, far-away sound and twisted his head up, looking around behind him. Sophie's silhouette was in the multi-paned window behind him, her hands helplessly beating on the glass. He felt a moment of regret, then shook it off.

Heading to Sophie's motorcycle, he breathed a sigh of relief that the keys were miraculously still present. He hadn't been sure how he was going to go after Sam without wheels. Wishing silently for sunglasses, but grateful for the warmth of the sun on his back as a shiver skittered through him, he swung his leg over the back of the bike, turned the key and kick-started the machine.

He was barely able to grip the handle with his left hand, the throb rolling from his shoulder to his fingertips in regular waves. He shivered again and pulled his arm against his chest for a moment. Taking a deep breath and clenching his jaw, he used his brother's name like a command.

_Sam…_

www

a/n:

**Songs (in order of appearance):**

Alice in Chains: _Don't Follow_

Bad Company: _Abandoned and Alone, _and _Fearless_

Audioslave: _Shadow on the Sun_

**Sophie's tattoo: **

_Captus hic , reverto domum. Lego is non vel licentia is est. Pacis recedo quod malum roam. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.  
_Captured here, returned to home. Read this not or freed it is. Peace depart and evil roam. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

**Spell that keeps Sophie in the apartment:**

_Huic tractus quod huic vicis , moenia mos servo vos tutus secundum. Si vos licentia lemma vos must teneo , illic est nusquam vobis praecessi.  
_In this space and in this time, walls will keep you safe behind. If you leave them you must know, there is nowhere for you to go.

_The next chapter is rather long, but since I'd written this as one piece and then split it up, I didn't really know how else to break up the action. I hope you enjoy. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1.

a/n: Those of you who have been missing Sam will be glad to see his return in this chapter. It was unusual for me to write so much where the brothers were separated, but it was necessary (I thought) for the flow of Dean's story. I was glad when Dean remembered him—I missed writing their interactions. :)

I hope the end of this story provides the resolution you've been looking for. The story kinda… punched out of me, to quote Sam, and I didn't alter it much when I broke it up into three sections. I may have triggered more questions by the _way_ I broke it up, so I'll have to take that into consideration if I post this way again. I know that the possibility of holes exists because this was written so quickly (and I chose to post rather than play with it), but I hope that any you may notice don't detract from your overall enjoyment of the story.

_deep breath_

Okay, here 'tis. Oh, and Onari, there's a song in here for you.

Linger

_"Man is the only creature whose emotions are entangled with his memory."  
- __**Marjorie Holmes**_

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Dean forced his left hand to rest on the throttle of the motorcycle. Turning the bike in a tight circle, he headed for the alley opening. His stomach tightened with anxiety, his head full of one thought: _find Sam_. Glancing to either side, he thought back to his return trip last night. The rain had obscured his vision and was now clouding his already sketchy memory. Closing his eyes briefly, he retraced the landmarks in his mind, then turned right.

Twisting the throttle to punch up his speed, he leaned low over the handle bars and behind the Plexiglas shield. Wind rippled around him, bunching up his black T-shirt at his back and exposing the 9mm that he had tucked into his waistband. Holding the bike steady with his stronger hand, he reached behind him and removed the gun, then curled his stomach in so that he could tuck the weapon in his front. His shirt inched up, exposing the flat planes of his stomach. He felt the caress of the wind over his skin and his lip curled up in a brief moment of pleasure.

Tipping the bike slightly to the left, he blew past a red pick-up truck, then tucked back in front of it to narrowly avoid a delivery van heading at him, horn blaring. The wind stole moisture from his squinted eyes and rustled his short hair. His shirt was now up to the middle of his chest, and he felt the heat of the sun on his bare back easing the muscle-weakening shivers that shimmered through his body.

Angling his right knee to the side as he'd seen Sophie do, he took a corner fast and straightened the bike quickly. When he reached Kat's bungalow he was almost disappointed that the ride was over. He couldn't remember what he normally drove, but he felt sure he could get used to feeling speed like this.

The motor rumbled low as he slowed, stopped, then turned off the bike. Tugging down his T-shirt, he swung his leg over the bike and sprinted up to the front door. Taking a breath, he first tried the handle, then peered in the window at the side. The house was dark. He glanced over his shoulder. _Too many eyes_. Using his right arm as a brace, he vaulted over the edge of the porch railing, dropping to a crouch in a flower bed, and hurried around to the back of the house.

The back door was unlocked. Shaking his head, he eased in, glancing around the kitchen. He crept through the dark room, starting to step into the hallway when intuition had him ducking into a low and immediate crouch, narrowly avoiding taking a frying pan to his already wounded head.

"Whoa!" He exclaimed as the pan was brought back around just as hard. "Hang—hang on!"

"Get out of my house!"

The voice was eerily familiar, the growl unmistakable. Dean reached out, grasping a slim wrist, and stood, pulling the form of a girl of about twenty-five up close to him. Her chest bounced off of his and she gasped, her eyes gray and hot.

"Let go—"

"Just hold still—"

"You let go, or I'll—"

"Kat! Hold on!"

At his bark of her name, she froze.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Dean continued. He shook her wrist once and the frying pan dropped to the floor. "I'm not here to hurt you," he repeated, his tone softer. He released her wrist and she backed away from him.

"Who are you?"

Dean gaped at her as she reached around the side of the wall and flicked on the kitchen lights. Except for the chin-length cut of hair, he could be staring at Sophie. Her high cheekbones, full lips, pert nose were her great-aunt's. Her eyes were wider, softer, and he didn't imagine they turned a vivid blue when she was scared or angry. But there was no denying the family resemblance.

"Hello? I asked you a question."

Or the similar attitudes.

"My name is Dean Winchester," he said, his hands up and open. "I'm here to find my brother."

"You think I've got him stashed somewhere?"

"No… no, listen, I was here last night…"

"Oh, hell," Kat turned away, running a hand through her hair. "He wasn't crazy."

"He? Who was crazy?"

Kat flopped down on a kitchen chair, dropping her head into her hands. "That guy that dragged me out of my window last night. He said his brother was gonna come back looking for him. Told me to tell you…"

She brought her head up, her brows furrowed.

"Tell me what?" Dean crossed to her, crouching in front of her. "Kat, please… _please_ I gotta find him."

"I'm trying to remember… it was… weird."

Dean rubbed his hand over his face. "Weird like…" He prompted.

"It was…" Kat tapped the center of her forehead as if she could shake the memory forward. "Gimme a break, okay? A lot has happened in the last twenty-four hours."

"Tell me about it," Dean stood up, swaying slightly. He turned from her and walked over to the kitchen sink, bracing his arms and dropping his head.

"Hey, you're bleeding," Kat stood up and crossed quickly over to him.

Dean glanced down at his arm, surprised. The bullet wound on his upper arm was seeping red through his bandage, soaking through his T-shirt and starting to trickle down his arm. "Damn," he said, surprised. Now that he saw it, he also felt it.

"Here, sit down," Kat took his arm and led him to the chair she just vacated. "Let me look."

"No, seriously, it's—"

"I'm a nurse," Kat interrupted. "Let me look."

Dean sighed, suddenly very tired. Kat rolled up the T-shirt sleeve, then carefully unwrapped the gauze, her lips pursed, her brows furrowed.

"Bullet wound?"

He nodded.

"From last night?"

"Your chair saved my life."

"And to think I was this close to selling it at last week's garage sale," Kat muttered, her calm eyes running quickly over his face. "You got a good abrasion here, too. Looks like this laceration could have used some stitches." Dean simply blinked at her. She lifted his left forearm. "Do I want to know what happened here?"

"Burn," he said.

"Campfire or curling iron?" Her lips quirked up in a half smile.

Dean tilted his head at her humor. "Exploding cabin."

"Well, that'll do it," she set his arm down gently on the table. "Don't move. I'll be right back." She patted his hand and turned away, pausing at the doorway. "Butterfly."

"Come again?" Dean blinked sideways at her.

"That's what your brother said… I'm pretty sure it was butterfly."

As she ducked down the hall, Dean stared after her in confusion. _Butterfly… _He wracked his brain, trying to figure out what Sam might have meant, what message he was trying to send, but the harder he thought, the emptier his mind became. It was like staring into a dark corner of a room trying to see if anything was there. The harder he stared, the darker it became. He was trying to pin smoke to a wall.

Kat returned with a large plastic box. She sat it down, pulled out latex gloves and wiggled her fingers into them. Taking out antiseptic, gauze pads and bandages, she started with his shoulder. She poured a generous amount of antiseptic on a gauze pad and with careful, gentle strokes, she began to clean the wound. Despite her care, Dean couldn't help but flinch, biting back a groan as the antiseptic found its way into the raw places on his shoulder.

"You clean this out yourself?" Kat asked, reaching for a pair of tweezers.

"No," Dean forced out through clenched teeth.

"Well, whoever it was did a decent job," Kat whispered. "Easy, this might—"

"Ah, sonuva_bitch_!"

"—hurt," Kat finished. "Sorry, but you had some pieces of material in there… looked like leather."

"Mm-hmm."

Dean felt the shaking begin just over his heart. He realized suddenly that he was fading. The edges of his vision were folding in, the sharpness of objects softening. He picked a focal point—the drip from the kitchen faucet behind Kat—and started counting. The only sound he heard was the seemingly deafening boom of the water drop hitting the empty sink. He pulled air in through his nose and counted the beats to the first song that came to his head.

_"But your thoughts will soon be wandering, the way they always do, when you're ridin' sixteen hours, and there's nothin' much to do. And you don't feel much like ridin', you just wish the trip was through…"_

"You still with me?"

Dean closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of the water hitting the empty sink, and nodded. He felt his body list, shifting slightly to the side, his ribs resting against the edge of the table. With weak fingers, he gripped the edge of the table top.

"Can you open your eyes for me, Dean?" Deft fingers were flitting over his shoulder, wrapping the wound.

He shook his head. _Six, seven, eight…_

"Sure you can," Kat fingers gripped his chin carefully, tilting his face toward her. Dean felt the echo of his trembling body against her still fingers. He forced his eyes open, pulling his lips in, breathing carefully through his nose.

"Atta boy," Kat smiled. "One down, two to go."

"'M fine," Dean protested, starting to push away.

"Listen," Kat stopped him. "Your friend wrapped these good, but whoever it was didn't know shit about medicine."

Dean blinked at her candid tone.

"I am going to check this burn and clean that head wound," she said, her eyes steady. "Unless you're looking to get an infection."

"N-no," Dean replied, pissed at himself that he couldn't keep his voice steady.

"Right, okay," Kat took a breath. "I'm just gonna unwrap this first, take a look, okay?"

Dean nodded.

"_Out there in the spotlight, you're a million miles away. Every ounce of energy you try to give away. As the sweat pours out your body, like the music that you play…"_

"Hmm…" Kat muttered as she gently pulled the saturated gauze from his arm. She seemed to be talking to herself as she inspected the swollen, pink of his arm. "Nasty."

"Gee, that's encouraging."

She tossed the old bandages on the floor with the bloody ones from his shoulder. He grimaced as the air hit the burns. Kat winced in sympathy.

"_You smoke the day's last cigarette, rememberin' what she said…"_

"You cold?"

"N-no," Dean said, closing his eyes again as a shiver betrayed him.

"It's the burn, Dean," Kat said softly. "From the looks of it, these are second degree burns. The swelling and the blisters should go down in a couple of weeks, but you need to keep it clean and keep the salve on it."

"Mm-hmm," Dean nodded. _Two, three four…_

"You guys French?"

Dean blinked. "What?"

"I said are you guys French?"

"French? No. No we're not French." He stared at her, the song in his head fading.

"What are you taking?"

She was making his head spin. "What? Taking?" His eyebrows quirked, meeting over the bridge of his nose.

Kat dropped her chin, looking at him through her lashes. "For the pain."

"Oh, uh… aspirin."

Kat frowned. "When was the last time you had some?"

"Couple hours ago."

Kat nodded. "I need to clean this, Dean," she said. "The salve is helping, but these blisters are pretty bad."

Dean huffed out a breath, nodded, and looked over at the sink. The drip continued its cadence. He felt Kat's eyes on him.

"Hang on," she said, pushing herself to her feet. She stepped over to a kitchen cabinet, reached up to the top shelf, and brought down a nearly-full bottle of Jameson. Turning, she plunked the bottle down in front of Dean.

Dean groaned out loud, reaching for it. "I could kiss you right now."

Kat grinned. "You stop strange men from breaking in and shooting up my house, I might let you."

She pushed his hand away, twisted off the lid and lifted an eyebrow at him. "Need a glass?"

"Not especially."

Nodding, Kat sat back down across from him, exchanging her whiskey-soiled latex gloves for clean ones. "Might want to take a drink now."

Dean didn't have to be told twice. Taking a long pull off of the bottle, he set it down and stared again at the drip coming from the kitchen sink. He saw the antiseptic-soaked gauze pad approach his arm and tried to bite back the groan of pain as the burn shot electric currents from his fingertips to his teeth. He took another swig.

"W-why did you… ask me if we were… French?"

"Oh," Kat shrugged, concentrating on her task. "I just remembered that your brother used the French word for butterfly."

"He did wha—"

"_Papillon_."

"W-wait…" Dean looked down at Kat, then immediately away. Seeing the bright red of his arm made it hurt worse. "Are you saying that he said _papillon_?"

"Yeah," Kat nodded. "I heard the noise downstairs and before I could make it past the top of the stairs, he was up, grabbing me and carrying me back to my room. Gotta tell you, I was scared shitless. Thought he was going to…"

Dean hissed, gripping the edge of the table with his good hand. Even the drip couldn't block that stab of pain and he'd lost his song.

"Sorry, sorry," Kat said sincerely. She glanced up once at his face, then rushed on, keeping her voice even, constant, a viable distraction. "Anyway, he's got me up off the ground—guy's ginormous, by the way—and he's got his hand over my mouth and tells me not to scream, he's getting me out of there."

Kat reached over into her kit and grabbed a tube of salve. As she applied it, Dean felt an instant cooling relief.

"Anyway, he hauls me out of my window and we're both soaking wet and he tells me to shimmy down the drain pipe. Mind you," Kat flashed her eyes up at him. "I'm in my friggin' _nightgown_."

"B-bet Sammy didn't even l-look," Dean grinned. His chin was trembling and he clamped his teeth together, feeling the muscle in his jaw tighten.

"Yes, he was a complete gentleman. I get to the bottom and I'm thinking… make a break for it? And he drops down beside me, grabs me up and starts running. I was too shocked to fight back. All my self defense training—_whoosh_. Right out the window." Kat reached in her kit again and grabbed a roll of gauze. "You doin' okay?"

Dean took another swig of whiskey.

"Anyway, he takes me to this big black car, kinda tosses me in, and peels off. He stops at a church about five miles away, takes his coat off, and hands it to me. Tells me—oops sorry," Kat flinched as her gloved knuckles brushed against one of his blisters and Dean cried out. "Tells me that I need to wait until morning and then I can go back, but that I needed to grab stuff and go stay with a friend."

"That's my boy."

"Well, I thought he was insane."

"I see you didn't listen to him."

"Just before I get out of the car, he says that his brother is gonna come back and look for him and that I need to tell him _papillon_. He made me repeat it back to him, then he let me go."

"He wasn't talking about the butterfly," Dean said as Kat stood and leaned close, her fingers gently probing the bruised cut above his left eye.

"Oh yeah?"

"He was talking about the movie."

"Movie about butterflies?"

"Steve McQueen… Dustin Hoffman… ring any bells?"

"Sorry," Kat shook her head. "If it was made before 1982, I probably don't know it."

"Heathen."

"I don't think there's much I can do for this except clean it out," Kat said, frowning at his forehead. "It's too late for stitches."

"It's okay," Dean reached for the bottle of whiskey, but Kat pulled it away.

"Enough," she said, shaking her head. Dean lifted beseeching eyes to her and she stared resolutely back. "You still gotta drive, y'know."

Her eyes were slightly different from Sophie's, but they held the same fire, the same fight. Dean let his gaze linger and watched as her eyes shifted to his mouth, then back to his eyes. His lips curved up into a smile and his lids dropped, half-shielding the green of his irises.

"Don't you give me that look," Kat whispered.

"What look?"

"The one that I'm willing to bet turns girls into puddles of goo at the local bar," Kat said. "It won't work on me."

"Really," Dean said, a warmth growing in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the whiskey.

"Really," Kat's tone was soft, her lips barely moved with the word.

She stared at him a moment longer, then stepped back, pulling off her gloves with a decisive snap. Dropping them on top of the pile of old bandages, she picked up the bottle of Jameson, took a long drink, then pressed the back of her hand to her lips.

"Holy shit!"

Dean chuckled, his lips curling up in amusement.

"I think I just liquefied my throat," Kat breathed, coughing.

"Give it a second," Dean advised. Sighing, he rubbed at his forehead. _Papillon…_ He stood up carefully, holding on to the table. "You got a phone book?"

"Yeah," Kat rasped. "Top of the fridge."

Dean stepped over to the refrigerator, gripping the countertop to keep his balance, and flipped to the section of motels. His eyes caught the name of the first hotel on the page almost immediately.

"Can you tell me where the," he looked down at the page, "Sleep Easy Motel is?"

Capping the bottle and setting it on her counter, Kat nodded. "Just about ten miles south of here on Highway 62. Edge of town."

Dean closed the book and set it on the counter behind him. "Thanks."

He sighed, his eyes resting on nothing, his body screaming at him to _sit down, rest, just stop_, his head arguing that _there was a job to do_, and his heart, the loudest in the cacophony of rebellion inside of him, telling him to _find Sam_.

He ran his tongue over his teeth, pulling his lower lip into his mouth, tasting the whiskey that lingered there. Once he was sure that the pain had receded enough not to knock him on his ass, he stepped away from the counter and started toward the back door.

"Wait!" Kat called after him. "You're just… going?"

"I have to find my brother," Dean said, hand on the door knob, his eyes on Kat.

"What about that… that oily guy? The one from last night?"

Dean pressed his lips together. "Kat," he started. What could he say?_ You got an open mind?_ _Turns out you have an aunt, only she's undead… _"You think there are… things at work in our lives… stuff that we can't see, but that protects us?"

Kat narrowed her eyes and lifted a shoulder. "Sure. I mean I guess. Why?"

"Then believe me when I say that someone is watching out for you," Dean said. "And if I can get to Sam, we're gonna stop the… oily guy from coming after you again."

"Hey, Dean," Kat said, reaching for him and catching the edge of his T-shirt. He stopped, turning. "Your brother seemed… pretty sure that I should leave."

"I'd listen to him," Dean said. He ran his eyes over her face once more, then jerked the door open and stepped through.

_Papillon…_

He walked quickly around to the front of the house, swinging his leg over the back of the bike, kick-starting it. He glanced once to the windows of Kat's house, seeing her standing with her hands pressed against the glance in an eerie likeness of her aunt. He nodded once at her, then pulled away from her neighborhood. He'd seen a junction sign for Highway 62 on his way over, and merged smoothly into traffic.

Throttling the bike, he leaned close, noting that he could actually grip the handle bars with _both_ hands this time. The wind whipped around him, the sun beginning its afternoon decent into the western sky, warming his right side. He felt his shirt shift and flap against him, relished the feel of the wind wrapping around his bare stomach and back. He leaned low, dodging between cars and watching for the exit for the motel.

The Sleep Easy sign was neon-green. As he slowed to a stop. he realized that his insides were strung tight, his heart hammering loud enough he thought could hear it over the motorcycle engine. He shut off the bike, dismounted and headed to the office. He walked in under a ringing bell and grinned disarmingly at the forty-ish woman behind the counter.

"Afternoon," he greeted.

"That it is," she smiled back.

"Wondering if you got a room here under Dega. Louis Dega."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "And what if I do?"

"I heard he was in town," Dean said, tilting his head and softening his smile, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. Giving her what Kat had dubbed as _that look_. "Thought I'd surprise him."

"You from around here?"

"No, ma'am," Dean shook his head. "Just passing through."

She studied him a moment longer, then flicked red-tipped fingernails through a box of registration cards. "Room 494. Take the stairs just outside the door."

Dean rapped his knuckles on the top of the counter and broadened his smile. "Thanks a lot."

He had to stop himself from sprinting up the stairs and down the exterior landing to room 494. Once there he pulled up short, inexplicably nervous. Sam was here. Behind this door. A wave of something almost… possessive… stole over him. _His brother_…

_I want you to… watch out for Sammy…_

Dean swallowed, curling his right hand into a tight fist as he stared at the door. _Knock? Try the handle? Kick the door in?_

He opted for trying the handle, expecting it to be locked—didn't all motel rooms lock automatically? His eyebrows shot up when he realized that the door wasn't even latched. He pulled the 9mm from the waistband of his jeans, his heart in his throat. Easing the door open with his elbow, he led with the gun barrel into the dimly lit room.

"Sa—" he started. Before he could finish, long fingers gripped his wrist, jerking him into the room and spinning him around roughly. He blinked at the sight of a familiar-looking gun barrel pointed directly between his eyes.

"Dude," he snapped. "That's _my_ gun."

"Dean?!"

The gun lowered and Dean found himself staring at his little brother's shocked blue-green eyes. He flicked the safety on his HK, dropping it to his side, grinning.

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam, holding the gun in a point-shot position, looked like he was struggling for breath. "I-I thought… I thought you were… and then I saw you at…"

It took every ounce of Dean's remaining energy _not_ to reach over, grab Sam, and pull him in for a hug.

"It's… it's really good to see you, man," Dean lifted the corner of his mouth in a hesitant grin.

His lips dropped into a frown as he took a closer look at his brother. There were bruises around Sam's right eye and his lip had been split. A cut under his eye had been pulled together by white butterfly bandages.

"Did Rena do that?" Dean nodded at Sam's face.

"_God_, Dean," Sam pressed his hands against the sides of his head, Dean's silver .45 still in his right. His eyes darted quickly in thought, running from Dean's face to his bandaged arm, to the gun still gripped in his right hand and then back to his face.

"I'm gonna kill that sonuvabitch," Dean growled, dropping the 9mm on the bed and reaching for Sam's hands. He pulled them from his brother's face, removed the gun and dropped it on the bed next to the 9mm, then tipped Sam's face to the side, inspecting the damage. "I'm gonna kill him and then bring him back and kill him again."

Sam shrugged away from Dean's hands. He reached out and shut the door, pulling the chain lock across. Turning back to Dean, he rested his hands on his hips, dropped them, then put them back again.

Dean braced himself. He felt Sam building up, felt a countdown in his head, waited for the explosion.

"What the _hell_, Dean?" Sam finally yelled, moving past him and across the small motel room.

Dean simply watched him. He couldn't seem to get enough of watching Sam move, watching Sam react, watching Sam talk. He remembered feeling this before… in Palo Alto when he'd come back for Sam after Dad vanished and then again when he found him in that hotel room with Ava. Just _seeing_ Sam settled him, balanced him. _His brother…_ Even royally pissed off, Sam was a sight for sore eyes.

"I thought you were _dead_!" Sam roared, spinning to face him. "That room exploded… and I saw you go flying back… and then Rena pulled me out…"

"Were you hurt?"

"What?" Sam blinked.

"Did you get…burned or anything?"

"No, I didn't get burned," Sam shook his head, his brows meeting over his nose. "But I did spend the last two days with a psychotic hunter. And until last night I thought you were…" Sam's voice caught. "I thought you were dead, Dean," he said again; this time it was an accusation.

Dean felt his breath stutter in his chest as he watched tears gather in Sam's eyes. Sam pressed his lips together, looking away. He gathered himself, then looked back, facing Dean as if braced for bad news.

"When you showed up at the girl's house… I didn't know what to think. I'd… I let him pull me away… from the… the fire. I just… I _left you_ there."

"You did the right thing, Sam," Dean said, taking a step toward his brother. Sam stepped back. Dean felt his heart crack.

"No…" Sam shook his head, his chin trembling with the effort of keeping the tears in check. "No, man. I… You don't know what that was like, Dean. I tried so _hard_ to get back in to that cabin, to get to you, but Rena held me back. He was so damn _strong_. And then the next thing I knew I woke up in the back of his truck—"

"Jesus, Sammy."

"—and he was telling me that she killed you… that _she_ set the trap—"

"Sam, she saved my life."

"—and I knew he was lying, man, because he was at the cabin before we were, and he told us to go in, told us that she would _follow_ us, remember—"

"That's just it, Sam, I—"

"—and I knew, dammit, I _knew_ before we went in, but he was a hunter and he was supposed to be on _our_ side and—"

"Sam."

"—I trusted the bastard and _you didn't_ and if I'd just listened to—"

"SAM!"

Sam finally stopped, slightly winded. "What?"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. The world was teasing him with motion. "I was trying to tell you," he said, his voice controlled, "that I don't remember. I mean I _didn't_. That's why it took me so long to find you."

"What do you mean you…"

Dean rubbed his forehead with his left hand, sighing. He felt himself sway and opened his eyes to regain his balance.

"Holy shit," Sam said softly, his eyes darting from the bandages on Dean's arm to the bruised cut above his eye as if just noticing them for the first time. "What the hell happened to you?"

Dean sank on the edge of the bed, then peered up at Sam through shadowed eyes. "Too much, Sam."

Sam narrowed his eyes, sitting slowly on the edge of the adjoining bed, facing his brother. He rested his forearms on knees, twisting the fingers of his right hand with his left.

"You… you said you didn't remember?"

"I woke up and she was there—"

"The vampire?"

"Sophie, yeah," Dean nodded. "She got me out of there and to her place. Dude," he shook his head, "she had to tell me my _name_."

Sam's shoulders seemed to sink. "Damn, Dean."

Dean rubbed at his bottom lip with his index finger. "It all kinda came back to me in… flashes. Really friggin' painful flashes. Like… like fire in my head."

"Huh," Sam bounced his head. "Sounds like what my visions feel like."

Dean looked over at Sam, startled.

_I have these nightmares… and sometimes they come true…_

Dean winced, looking away.

_First, you tell me that you've got the Shining and then, you tell me that I have to go back home?_

"Dean?"

"I, uh… I forgot about that," Dean said softly, rubbing at his forehead.

"You okay?"

Dean nodded, pulling his hand from his face, his fingers open, searching the air for a way to explain the sensation of _nothing_ so swiftly turning into _everything_. "It's like… holes. Most of it's there, but then I fall into this hole and it's empty and I… fall until the words fill it up."

Sam looked down. "I'm sorry, man," he said. "I didn't know. When I… when I woke up in his truck I didn't know where we were." Sam swallowed, twisting his fingers, staring at the floor. "And that fire… Dean, that fire was so hot… He told me you were dead. I just… I kinda checked out. Only thing I could figure was that I had to finish the job. That's what you would have done, right?" Sam glanced up.

Dean nodded.

"I just did the job, stuck with Rena, listened in on his calls, got to the girl's house. He said she was the key to getting the vamp… But Dean, he was… seriously unhinged about that girl, and even when… when I knew you were there... I knew I had to get her out, keep her away from him. I would have come back for you, Dean, I swear, but—"

"Rena got to you first."

"I came back and the house was empty. I knew he'd find me, so I headed back to the hotel... the first one. I was gonna clear out and head here, but he jumped me when I got out of the car," Sam huffed out a frustrated laugh. "Woke up in the back of his friggin' truck again."

"How'd you get away?"

Sam's lips twisted into a humorless grin. "He's psychotic, but he can't tie knots for shit."

Dean looked up at him. "I would have found you a lot sooner—"

"Kinda hard to find someone you don't remember exists." Sam's smile turned sad.

"I remember you, Sammy," Dean said softly. "I remember the important stuff."

They stared at each other a moment and Dean felt a tug in his chest, a desire to connect, an almost physical need to simply touch his brother. He didn't move. Sam looked away, rubbing at the bruise on his face.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Just need a couple of aspirin or something."

Dean brightened. "Here," he said, digging in his pocket and pulling out some of the ibuprofen that he'd taken from Sophie's house.

Sam grinned and held his hand out. Dean reached over to drop the pills into Sam's open palm. As his fingers brushed his brother's, Dean flinched. Fire flashed before his eyes, Sam's terrified voice called out, pain enveloped him, and darkness unlike anything he could remember feeling crashed into him.

It was an instant, a heartbeat, and it passed within the sound of a gasp, but Sam saw. He twisted his hand quickly, gripping Dean's wrist. Dean looked down at the fingers wrapped around his wrist and swallowed.

"When I remembered you… I saw everything, Sam," he whispered. "From when I carried you out of our old house until we got to that cabin with Rena."

"Everything?" Sam asked softly, tightening his grip on Dean's wrist, as if he, too, was reluctant to break the connection. Dean felt one of them trembling.

"Something was missing, though… there were still holes, but I… I watched you grow up on fast forward," Dean kept his eyes pinned to Sam's fingers, watching as the grip turned white. "I saw you… us… and Dad, and what it was like without Mom, and hunting and you going… going to school… and finding you again… and it was… I—"

He couldn't finish, the lump in his throat making speech impossible.

"I know, Dean," Sam said, softly.

Dean looked up, blinking, his eyes dry, but full.

"I know," Sam repeated.

"I mean it, Sam," Dean said.

Sam's grin was watery and he reluctantly released Dean's arm. "You forget about your own chic-flick moment rule?"

Dean laughed softly. "Yeah, I guess," he said. "Thanks for reminding me."

Sam nodded at his bandaged arm. "The vamp—er, uh, Sophie do that for you?"

"The first time, yeah," Dean nodded, flexing his left hand. "I don't really remember how it happened. Woke up and my arm was on fire. She wrapped it once, but I managed to mangle it. Her niece fixed it, though."

"Her _what_?"

Dean looked up at Sam's shocked question.

"Kat—the girl you told about _Papillon_," Dean said. "Nice one, by the way."

Sam shook his head. "Dude, it was all I could think of after I tried to get away from that freak… but wait, _niece_?"

Dean pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the duffel bags sitting on top of the table across the room. He unzipped one: weapons.

"Yeah," he replied to Sam. "Who'd you think she was?"

Sam shrugged. "I didn't really… care. He was after her as a means to an end. I just knew we, uh, I mean, _I _had to get her out of there."

Dean glanced over at Sam, then back into the weapons bag. He pulled out his Bowie knife, grinning. _Sophie would drool over this baby…_

"You handed that over to me before we went into the cabin," Sam reminded him.

"I give you all my guns, too?" Dean said, frowning.

"No," Sam shook his head. "You didn't have any—just the machete."

"Huh," Dean nodded. "Guess that explains that…"

"So… how does a vampire have a niece?" Sam prompted.

Dean shoved the Bowie knife back into the weapons bag. "Long story short, Sophie has a soul, traded her vamp husband for it, and she's been keeping watch over her niece, Kat, for the last fifteen years."

He started to dig through another bag.

"That's mine," Sam said.

Dean moved to the third. "And you're never gonna believe this one."

"You've narrowed the possibility of disbelief down to one thing?"

Dean glanced over his shoulder at Sam. "Jim Murphy performed the ritual."

"Pastor Jim?" Sam asked, incredulous. Dean nodded. "What ritual?"

"Returning Sophie's soul," Dean said, turning back to the bag. "There's a Latin… spell or charm or something tattooed on her back—"

"Whoa, wait," Sam stood, crossing the room and leaning against the wall next to Dean, watching his brother's face. "You saw her back?"

"She got shot back at Kat's—when you and Rena were there. Saved my life."

"Huh," Sam rolled against the wall until he was leaning back against it, his arms crossed over his chest. "A vampire with a soul. They oughta make a TV show about that."

"Very funny," Dean pulled out a gray T-shirt, a pair of jeans, clean boxers, and socks.

"You gonna shower?" Sam asked.

"Not right now," Dean said. "But I've been in these clothes so long I feel like they're growing on me."

"Nice visual."

Dropping the clothes on the bed, Dean started to change as Sam slid down the wall, sitting on the floor, lost in thought.

"So… she got her soul back just to watch over her niece?"

"Great-niece. And yeah."

"Does Kat know this?"

"Nope."

"Where is she now?"

"Kat?"

"Sophie."

Dean tugged the gray shirt down, then turned to sit on the bed and put his boots back on. "I trapped her at her apartment."

"Trapped her? How?"

"She had all these Latin verses on papers taped to her windows," Dean said, standing and going back to his bag. "I just used one."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "Dude, you used Latin?"

Dean tossed a look over his shoulder. "Yeah, why? Don't I usually?"

Sam folded his lips down. "I mean, you know it… you just usually, y'know… shoot first."

"Yeah, well," Dean dug deeper in his bag. "That wasn't an option this time." He held the items from his bag against his chest with his right hand and turned around.

"You're shaving?" Sam asked eyeing the razor and shaving cream.

"Dude, this is driving me nuts," Dean said, scratching at his scruffy jaw line. He started toward the bathroom. "Hey, why did you have the door unlocked anyway?"

Sam tipped his head back against the wall. "I thought you were going to be somebody else."

"You greet all your dates like that, Sammy?" Dean said, the lower half of his face covered with white foam.

"Funny," Sam said, rolling his neck. "Nah, I thought you were going to be this little rat bastard, Rudy, who's been playing both halves against the middle."

Dean ran the blade down one side of his face, rinsing the hair and shaving cream off, then continued along his jaw. "How so?"

"Oh, he was meeting with Rena, giving him leads on vampires, then he'd make friendly with the vampires and set up the hunters."

"How's that pay off for him?"

"Rena and the hunters pay him for information, the vamps pay him for information, and let him live… I guess," Sam rubbed his thumb across the palm of his other hand. "He has bugs and eyes everywhere. Listens to everything. He's scary smart—like if Ash ever went to the dark side."

Dean walked out of the bathroom, wiping his face with a white towel. He tossed the towel back into the bathroom, then rubbed the flat of both hands down his cheeks. _Much better…_

"How'd you get messed up with him?"

Sam tilted his head to look up at Dean. "He found Kat's house. Told Rena. I was surprised as hell to see you there _with_ Sophie. Rudy said he'd sent her in a different direction."

"Hold up, wait," Dean spread his hands out, frowning at Sam. "You telling me that this Rudy guy told you where Kat was?"

"Yeah."

Dean shifted his eyes to the side. "Sophie got a call… telling her that Rena was about to get Kat… that's why we were there."

"Told you," Sam pushed himself to his feet. "Rat bastard."

"Sam, Sophie trusts this guy," Dean said.

Sam lifted a shoulder. "So does Rena," he went to the weapons bag. "They're both wrong."

"No, you don't get it," Dean said. "She calls him her familiar."

Sam looked over at him, frowning. "I thought familiars were supposed to be animals."

Dean rubbed at the bridge of his nose. _It keeps the rats away…_ "She knew."

"Knew? Knew what?"

Dean looked over at Sam, his eyes wide. Sam shifted, his head tilted, eyes pinned to Dean.

"Sam, she knew someone was listening to her… she just didn't know _who_," Dean said. "She keeps music playing… only really talked when it's on in the background…"

"So, she's being betrayed by someone she trusts," Sam said, his tone matter-of-fact, his eyes narrowed. "Not the first time it's happened."

"Yeah, but—" Dean stopped, realizing what he was about to say.

"What, Dean?"

"Nothing," Dean shook his head, walking over and grabbing the 9mm from where he'd dropped it on the bed. "Got us a new gun."

"No, don't do that," Sam shook his head.

Dean lifted flat eyes to meet Sam's, saying nothing.

"You care about her, don't you?"

"What?" Dean pulled his head back, his brows twitching. "No! She's a vamp."

"Who saved your life," Sam tipped his chin down.

Dean sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Maybe we should call Dad on this one… see if familiars could be shape-shifters or something…"

Sam went utterly still. Dean dropped the HK and the extra clips into the weapons bag, turning to retrieve the .45. He glanced up at Sam's silence. All of the blood had drained from Sam's face, and his lips were parted in an attempt to pull in more air.

"Sam?" Dean stepped forward, alarmed. "Dude, blink or something."

"Dean…"

"Jesus, Sam," Dean grabbed his brother's arms, forcing him to sit onto the bed behind him. "What the hell—"

"Dean, we can't…"

Dean frowned at the weak-sounding voice. "Can't what?"

"Can't call Dad," Sam finished.

"Why the hell not?" Dean said, pulling his head back slightly. "I mean, I know we'll get voicemail, but—"

"Dean," Sam swallowed. He reached up a careful hand to grasp Dean's right arm. "Try to remember."

Dean felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as Sam's eyes searched his. _Remember what?_ His heart hammered painfully in his chest and he felt strangely hollow.

"Try to remember," Sam repeated. "When is the last time you talked to Dad?"

"It was…"

And Dean's world ended.

A slick sheen of sweat instantly covered his body as his legs disappeared and he sat down, hard, on the motel room floor in front of Sam. His brother's strong hands held tight to his upper arms, but he didn't feel the contact. He couldn't hear Sam's voice telling him to take it _easy, easy… just breath, okay, I've got you…_ he couldn't see his brother's frightened eyes. He saw only the holes in his memory filling in with the devastating truth.

_Dad… Dad, don't you let it kill me…Dad… Please…_

"Aw, fuck," Dean breathed, leaning forward and gripping his head. The pain was complete, it wrapped around him, held him in an icy grip of fire. He curled in, pulling away, searching for the darkness that had saved him before, the darkness he knew.

_You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You **did** that. I am so proud of you…_

"No… God, no…" It couldn't be real. He didn't want it to be real. He wanted to go back. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to hear that ear-splitting whine.

_Time of death: 10:41am._

"Stop…stop it…" He curled his fingers into his hair, trying to force the images away, trying to stop the voices, the words crashing into each other, bouncing away, tearing through him in their journey.

_You are my children. I'm trying to keep you safe… Your mother's death, it almost killed me. I can't watch my children die, too. I won't._

"No…" He saw brown eyes, dark, full of mixed emotions, shifting to pride, then sorrow. Twisting away from the grip that held him firm, held him fast, arms that wrapped around him, rocking him, working to soothe, he tried to pound the images away, tried to summon the black, tried to deny the truth… the truth that Sam knew… the truth that had driven Sam away…

_I want you to watch out for Sammy… You gotta save your brother, Dean… you're the only one who can. If you don't save him… you have to kill him._

It was real. Dad was gone. And Dean hadn't stopped it...

_What happens if you die? Dad, what happens if you die and we could have done something about it?_

The family he'd fought for, all of his life, was down to two. His hero was gone…

_It scares the hell out of me, you two are all I've got. But I guess we are stronger as a family._

And he hadn't stopped it…

_Knowing how your daddy died for you, knowing he sold his soul. I mean, that's got to hurt. He's all you ever think about. You wake up and your first thought is 'I can't do this anymore.' You're all lit up with pain. I mean, you loved him so much. And it's all your fault._

He had caused it…

_Don't be scared, Dean._

"Dad…"

www

"…breathing, so I know you're alive… thought you'd left me… shoulda known… too stubborn…"

_Sam_. Sam's voice. Dean clawed his way back to awareness. He wanted to see Sam. The holes were gone, and he _needed_ to see Sam.

"…never really knew what it felt like… always had you… always knew you were there…"

Dean tried to shift, tried to open his eyes, but his body wouldn't obey. His head felt stretched, balloon-like. One wrong move and it would pop and expose every thought and fear that he'd kept walled-up inside. He was lying against something, and he felt safe.

"Dean… when that door blew you back," Sam's voice came in clearer, tears laced through the words. "I thought it was over. I thought you were gone. And I was alone. And I didn't know what to do. I forgot how to... breathe. I kinda… lost it, man. I was just moving, y'know? I wasn't really there. Not without you."

Sam sniffed and Dean felt him shift, realizing then that he was lying basically in Sam's lap, his brother's long arm across him. He felt Sam breathing, felt the motion of his brother's body, felt the steady _thrum thrum thrum_ of Sam's heartbeat as his brother's arm anchored him.

"When I heard your voice in that house… man, it was like I woke up. It took _that moment_ for me to realize what my leaving must have been like for you. Especially… after Dad…"

_Dad…_ The memory brought with it a familiar pang through Dean's chest, a longing that he knew he felt every day… but this time his head remained steady. The searing pain that had accompanied each memory over the past two days was gone. In its place was a hollow space. And the hollow was shifting, settling down around his heart, shrinking until it occupied the same area inside of him where it had rested since 10:41am the day his father had given his life for Dean's.

"Dean, c'mon, man," Sam gripped his shoulder. "I need you to open your eyes, okay? I can't do this by myself."

"Yes, you can," Dean rasped.

Sam sobbed out a laugh. "Yeah, well," he sniffed. "I don't want to."

Dean forced his eyes open a crack, his lashes heavy with residual emotion. He shifted slightly, peering at Sam.

"My head still on?"

Sam nodded. "You scared me, man." He started rubbing Dean's arm in a distracted, unconscious manner. "You wouldn't stop shaking and it was like you didn't even know I was there."

Dean swallowed and closed his eyes. He could feel the trembling ease under the weight of Sam's hand. He forced his eyes to open wider.

"You're petting me, Sam," he pointed out.

"Oh," Sam stopped. "Sorry."

"Dad's gone." He had to say it out loud.

"Yeah," Sam nodded.

"Because of me."

Sam didn't reply.

Dean closed his eyes again. "I know it, Sam. It's okay."

"It's not okay," Sam argued. "It's never gonna be okay."

Dean felt weak, and that pissed him off. He was tired of hurting, tired of being taken down by his memories, tired of life sitting behind the wheel while he was forced to ride shotgun, always on the lookout, always prepared. Enough was freakin' _enough_ already.

"Help me up."

"Wait, Dean, just—"

"Sam, help me," Dean tried to shift away from Sam's grip.

Sam put a hand under his shoulder, helping Dean rotate until they were side-by-side, leaning against the foot of the bed. Their shoulders touched.

"How long?"

"Has he been gone?"

"Have I been out?"

"Oh," Sam blinked, peering at his watch. "Little over an hour."

"Good," Dean rubbed his forehead. His entire body felt bruised. "Last time it was all night."

They were both quiet. Then Sam cleared his throat.

"It's been almost six months."

"Feels like six minutes," Dean said softly.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Even when you don't relive it all in one blow."

Dean heard sympathy and pain in Sam's words.

"You okay, Sammy?"

_I'm not alright, not at all…_

"I am now," Sam replied, looking over at Dean, his eyes honest.

_But neither are you, that much I know._

"Me, too," Dean said, the corner of his mouth pulling up.

They sat for a long while, silent. Dean let the warmth from Sam's shoulder seep into him, warming his bones, easing the sting the dark places inside of him left behind. He felt his body tick like a cooling engine, the aches standing up to be counted, and then summarily quenched by a will to _get up, to move, to fight, to do the job_. Sam held still, seeming to feel Dean's need for balance without comment.

When the silence became heavy, Dean took a breath and leaned forward, breaking contact with Sam. Sam shifted, glancing over at his brother out of the corner of his eyes. Dean felt his gaze and looked back.

"I can't believe you let that slimy bastard take you," Dean teased. "You must be getting rusty."

Sam shook his head. "He's vicious as hell. Fights dirty."

Dean's eyes flicked down to the split on Sam's lip. "I can see that."

"The second time I got away, he tied me _to_ the bed of his truck."

"Freakin' psycho," Dean grumbled. "I'm seriously gonna beat his ass."

"You and what army, Shorty?"

"I'll go for the legs," Dean grinned.

"Maybe we should introduce Rena to Gordon," Sam joked.

"Oh, shit!" Dean suddenly exclaimed. "Shit!"

"What?" Sam looked over at his brother, confused.

Dean pushed himself to his feet, reaching out for the wall to steady himself. "I trapped her in that goddamn apartment… and if Rudy knows…"

Sam stood. "Rena could already have her."

"Sam, he's not after Sophie," Dean looked at him. "Not really—I think he wants her husband, Wade."

"The one Pastor Jim made her kill to get her soul?"

"That'd be him."

"Oh," Sam pulled his lip in. "We've got a problem, then."

"He's never gonna believe that she traded her husband in for a soul," Dean rubbed the back of his head.

"Where would he take her?"

Dean shrugged. "You're the one that spent time in solitary because of him," he said to Sam, referencing his choice of movies. "What do you think?"

Sam chewed on his thumbnail, thinking. "We went to that cabin because he said it was hers."

Dean nodded.

"Only, it wasn't," Sam continued. "He didn't know where her place was—"

"He couldn't see it," Dean interrupted. "Because of those spells."

"But if you trapped her in there… and Rudy knows where it is…"

"Dammit, you're right," Dean grabbed his .45, checked the clip, and grabbed an extra from the weapons bag. Sliding the gun into the front of his jeans, he turned to the door.

"Dean."

"What?"

"You forgetting something?"

Dean looked over at Sam. "Not funny."

Sam smiled softly, "Didn't mean it that way." He picked up a leather jacket from the back of a chair and handed it to Dean.

"Oh," Dean took the jacket, slid his arms in the sleeves, groaning audibly. "Oh, yeah. That's the stuff."

Sam rolled his eyes. "If you're like this with a friggin' _jacket_, you're gonna be impossible with the Impala."

"The _Impala_!" Dean cried out, practically ripping the door from its hinges in an effort to get outside. "Where—"

"I parked around back," Sam said, following him. "How'd you get here?"

"Sophie's bike," Dean called over his shoulder, heading for the stairs.

"You rode a… bike?"

www

"Isn't she the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?" Dean said for the tenth time as he navigated the path through the evening streets back to Sophie's apartment.

"So glad you're able to find moments of pleasure in the middle of potential tragedy," Sam said, shaking his head.

"Don't listen to him, baby," Dean stroked the steering wheel.

"I could always tell her that you forgot her," Sam teased. "That you _liked_ riding the Harley."

Dean tossed him a look. "You wouldn't dare." He turned left at a light. "Although, I have to say that machine had some fire."

Sam shook his head. "You and your machines."

Dean used his right arm to navigate a corner, holding his left close to his chest.

"Still say you should have let me drive," Sam grumbled, eyeing the stiff way Dean held his body.

"Are you high?" Dean shot his brother a look. "No friggin' way."

"Why not?" Sam suppressed a grin.

"Because it's _my_ car."

Sam shook his head, glancing out of the side window.

"Here it is," Dean said, forced to park on the street across from the warehouse as the Impala wouldn't fit down the narrow alley. He looked over at the building. "Is that his truck?" He asked, nodding toward a black Ford pick-up.

Sam nodded.

Dean looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "You ready?"

"We got a plan?"

Dean took a breath, sliding his eyes sideways to Sam. "Keep Rena from killing Sophie."

"And then what?"

"I don't know!" Dean shrugged, reaching across with his right hand and opening his door. "I'm making this up as I go along."

"Nice," Sam stepped out and joined his brother in a jog across the street and down the alley.

Dean knew something was wrong the minute he stepped into the building through the outside door. The fine hairs on the back of his neck came to attention. His fingers itched.

"What is that?" Sam was looking at the swath of blood smeared along the wall leading to Sophie's door.

"Blood."

"Whose blood?" Sam's voice hardened.

"Mine." Dean gingerly touched the wound at the top of his shoulder. "Got hit back at Kat's."

Sam's eyes shifted to Dean's shoulder. "Where was I?"

Dean pulled his .45 out. "Shimmying down a drainpipe."

"Oh," Sam pulled out his Glock, and flicked off the safety in unison with his brother.

Dean approached Sophie's door, using the barrel of his gun to tip the broken door open. It was dark in the apartment, but the music played on. Dean stepped through, making room for Sam, his eyes adjusting to the shadows, his gun up, ready.

_"The last girl and the last reason to make this last for as long as I could. The first kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything. The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I have ever learned. The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love…"_

"Sophie?" Dean called when he saw nothing in the living room.

"Dean," Sam whispered.

Dean looked over at Sam, hearing the tightness in his voice. Sam was looking up. Dean went cold. He felt his breath quicken. Bracing himself, he rotated his eyes to the ceiling.

Kat was hanging there, her hands bound behind her, her feet dangling. A piece of duct tape was over her mouth and eyes, and a thick cord of rope was laced under her arms and around her chest, tied securely to the same metal hook that held Sophie's overhead light.

"Sonuvabitch," Dean hissed through clenched teeth.

"Ah, here you are at last." The voice slid out of the dark and settled on Dean's shoulders like a weight. He saw Kat flinch and knew then that she was conscious.

"Show yourself, Rena," Dean growled, stepping further into the room. He felt Sam at his back, covering the areas he couldn't see.

"Now, where's the fun in that?"

"Where's Sophie?"

"Oh, you mean your knife-throwing vampire lover?" Rena's voice sneered. "She's around…"

Dean let the _lover_ comment slide, shifting his eyes to the empty kitchen doorway. He caught Sam's eyes and mouthed _bedroom_. Sam nodded. They began working opposite sides of the living room, making their way to the bedroom.

"You won't get what you're after, Rena," Dean said, still searching the dark corner of the small apartment. "He's already dead."

"So she claimed," Rena spat. "But demons lie, Winchester. Or haven't you learned that by now?"

"They also tell the truth," Dean retorted. "They know they'll win either way, Rena. Because they know we expect lies."

"Oh, very poetic," Rena scoffed.

Dean pointed the barrel of his gun to the open bedroom door. "Why don't you let us get Kat out of here?"

"Over my dead body," Rena replied, his voice suddenly coming from behind Dean.

Dean whipped around, surprised, and was confronted by the tall, sallow-skinned, curly-haired hunter. He brought his gun up, cracking Rena across the cheek, but the surprise of Rena's attack and the close proximity of his face deflected the power of the blow. Rena stumbled back and Dean regrouped, adjusting his grip on the .45, holding it steady on Rena.

"Dean!" Sam bellowed from the bedroom. "She's here!"

"She alright?"

"I don't—"

"Dead man's blood, Winchester," Rena said, spitting out blood. He drew the back of his meaty hand across his mouth, staring at Dean with dark, beady eyes full of contempt. "Saved special, just for her."

Dean twisted his face up in disgust. "You _saved_ some dude's blood? Man, that's gross."

"My _father's_ blood," Rena yelled. "I knew I would find them… I knew it was only a matter of time."

"She seems weak, Dean," Sam called out to him.

Dean began to work his way from the bedroom door toward the kitchen, drawing Rena with him. "Listen, Ben," Dean said, his voice low, calm, his eyes hard. "I get it. I do. When I find the bastard that killed my Dad, I'm gonna enjoy ending him."

Rena nodded, stepping into the semi-light from the papered windows. Dean saw that his right hand was wrapped, and he held a .45 in his left. Dean had a moment to wonder how the hell he'd managed to string Kat to the ceiling when Rena spoke.

"So you should understand," he said, stepping closer to Dean. "She's a monster, protecting her lover. I am doing my job—_our_ job—getting rid of her."

"There are circumstances you don't understand," Dean tried, circling carefully until he'd managed to position Rena with his back to the kitchen doorway. "Sophie traded Wade—the vampire you're after—for her soul. She got her _soul_ back, Rena. To protect her niece."

He was aware that Kat heard every word, and couldn't begin to think what was going through her head.

"Lies," Rena spat. "All of it. _Lies_."

"No, man," Dean shook his head. "You're wrong. Wade is dead. It's over."

"It's _not_ over!" Rena pointed in the direction of the bedroom. "That bitch is in there, poisoned with my father's blood. The man she allowed her husband to kill—the man she watched die! His blood is in her veins and she's _burning_ with it."

"Ben," Dean tried reasoning again. "You don't get it… it doesn't matter, okay? It doesn't matter what you do to her. She isn't the one you want."

"I know. But she'll give him up, or watch her niece die." Rena raised his gun to Kat and aimed.

"NO!" Dean shouted, firing at Rena's arm. Rena's shot went wild as Dean's bullet found its mark, bury itself into Rena's shoulder.

"Dean!"

"I'm—" Dean started, but realized quickly that Sam wasn't checking on him, he was warning him.

As Sophie charged past him, Dean caught a glimpse of her face, terrible in its intensity. Fangs extended, eyes electric-blue, brow furrowed with anger, Sophie became the monster everyone believed her to be. She slammed into Rena, knocking the gun from his hand and driving him into the kitchen.

Her inhuman roar of rage was matched by Rena's and he grappled with her, grasping and clawing at her throat. Sophie hammered him down on the ground, her supernatural strength the only thing saving her from being tossed about like paper by the much bigger man.

"Sophie!" Dean yelled.

But she was beyond hearing, beyond reason. The shot at Kat seemed to have snapped her last vestige of control and overpower any weakness left inside by the poison Rena had infused into her system. Dean realized that he was witnessing the ferocity of a protector whose charge is threatened. Kat whimpered pathetically behind him and he shot a look over his shoulder, then turned fully to face her when he realized what had happened.

"Sam!"

Rena's wild shot had somehow, impossibly frayed the rope holding Kat to the ceiling. As she struggled, the rope splayed and unraveled. Dean dropped his gun, stepping under her hanging body just as Sam joined him. The rope snapped and Kat fell face-first into their arms, Dean stumbling a bit to keep his left arm back, Sam struggling to take most of the girls' weight.

Something crashed behind them in the kitchen. Dean rolled Kat into Sam's grip and pivoted, picking up his gun on the run. He burst through the door of the kitchen in time to see Ben Rena lying next to the over-turned kitchen table, Sophie sitting astride him, his neck gripped tightly in one hand, her mouth descending.

"Sophie, no!"

She froze. Without turning, she growled, "He almost killed her, Dean."

"You have a soul, Sophie," Dean yelled.

"You're the one that said a soul doesn't cancel out evil."

"Yeah, well, I was wrong, okay?" Dean took a step forward. "You do this, you'll feel it forever."

"I feel _all _of them," she whispered, her voice low, deadly, and heartbreakingly raw.

"This one will be worse."

"He won't quit, Dean," she said. Her shoulders curved slightly. "He won't believe that Wade is gone."

"It won't matter when he's in jail," Dean said, taking another step forward. "Let him go."

Sophie sat very still for a moment, and Dean saw her fingers flex, tightening on Rena's neck. He took a breath, but she turned to face him and Dean saw that her eyes were once again gray, her full lips closed over a small mouth. Her hair slid over her shoulder and she stood, taking his outstretched hand. Stepping away from Rena's sprawled mass, Dean glanced out through the doorway. Sam had removed Kat's ropes and the tape and she stood next to him, rubbing at the sticky residue the tape left behind.

"Kat's okay, Soph—" Dean started.

"You bastard," Rena's bitter hiss was his only warning.

Dean turned, realizing his mistake one moment too late. Rena reached for the sheathed knife—visible now that the table was on its side—and jerked the blade free. With a heave, he threw the weapon, straight toward Dean's heart. Dean had time only to gasp as Sophie's small frame blocked the deadly blow, the blade burying itself deep into her chest, and sending her crashing into Dean. They fell to the floor in a bloody tangle.

"Dean!" Sam cried out.

Dean blinked, working to draw air back into his lungs. He pushed Sophie off of him, raising himself to sitting position with his right arm. Sam rushed through the doorway, gun drawn. He met Dean's eyes briefly, then crossed over to Rena. The large man was pushing himself forward, a look of dark fury on his bloody face.

Sam didn't pause; he pulled back his right hand and cracked Rena across the cheek with the barrel of his gun as he moved toward the man in a fluid motion of pent-up rage. Dropping his gun, Sam grabbed Rena up by the shirt, slamming his fist into the man's jaw once, twice. Rena dropped, dazed, and Sam punched him again, and again, not satisfied until the beady black eyes rolled up in his head and Rena fell back, unconscious.

"That's for lying to me," Sam grumbled, shaking his bruised knuckles.

"Sophie?" Dean leaned over her, his hand hovering over the hilt of the knife.

"You're right," she said, then groaned.

"About what?" He wrapped careful fingers around the hilt.

"It hurts like hell," she whispered.

"You gotta stop doing this." He shook his head.

Sophie grimaced, blinking at him. "Somebody has to save you, Dean."

Dean flinched at that, taking a breath.

"You ready?" He asked, looking her straight in the eye. She swallowed, nodding.

"On three, okay? One, two…"

Sophie screamed as he pulled the knife out and threw it aside. He pressed his hand against the wound instinctively. He knew it would close of its own accord, but there was so much blood. Sophie clamped her teeth shut, her body trembling, her eyes blinking rapidly as tears escaped from the sides and ran into her hair.

"You did good," Dean said, smiling at her. "You did real good, Sophie."

"Kat?"

"She's okay," Dean said. "Sam caught her."

"Don't know how he got her up there in the first place," Sophie muttered.

Dean felt motion around him and looked over his shoulder at Sam, watching as his brother used the ropes that had been wrapped around Kat to hog-tie Rena, pulling the rope from the man's bound ankles up through his bound hands and wrapping it securely around his meaty neck as he mumbled, "Oughtta dump you in the back of your damn truck, you freak."

Dean knew that any attempt Rena made to loosen his bonds would result in near-strangulation. He met Sam's eyes and nodded. Looking the other direction, he saw Kat sitting on the floor of Sophie's living room, staring blankly back at him.

And Sophie's music played on.

_"You look so fragile I could break… but I try to hold myself together for the both of us… but in truth I'm just as scared…"_

"Dean?" Sam asked, standing next to him.

"Just need another minute, Sam."

"'K," Sam whispered, turning to Kat in the living room.

"You don't have to stay," Sophie said, looking up at him. She slid a shaking hand over the one he kept pressed against her chest. "I'll be okay."

"I'm not staying for you," Dean said.

He looked at her soft eyes, her strong face, letting his eyes linger on her mouth. It looked so innocent, so… _normal_. But he knew, soul or no soul, it was an instrument of death. She stared back at him, seeming to understand his need to work it all out in his mind. The dichotomy of hunter and prey, working on the same side, working as one.

"Sophie," he said, pulling his eyes from her face and shifting them to stare into the middle distance. "The things I've seen… the things I've done… I'm not really meant to live a normal life."

She nodded.

He looked back at her, forcing her to meet his eyes. "But that doesn't mean I won't try."

She pulled her brows together. "What do you mean?"

"Don't get me wrong," he grinned. "I don't plan on painting a picket fence white anytime soon. But… Sam and me… we have our own normal."

Sophie released his hand and Dean realized that the bleeding had stopped. The wound had healed. He gripped her hand at the wrist and pulled her to a sitting position. They sat for a moment, looking at each other, then Dean glanced over to Sam and Kat. Sam reached out a hand to the young nurse, pulling her to her feet.

"I think there's someone you might want to meet," Dean said, not looking back at Sophie.

They stood, leaving Rena tied up in the kitchen. As Sophie approached her niece, Dean and Sam eased off to the side. Dean felt Sam shift, knew his brother was checking on him, and he glanced quickly to the side, offering Sam a nod as the two nearly identical women faced each other. As one, Sophie and Kat crossed their arms, then dropped them to their sides when they realized what they'd done.

"So… turns out I have a relative after all," Kat said.

"Some family reunion, huh?" Sophie shrugged.

Kat tilted her head. "How long have you been… watching over me?"

"Since you were ten."

"Did your husband kill my parents?" Kat asked, her voice flat.

Sophie didn't flinch. "No."

"Good."

"He won't hurt anyone anymore," Sophie said softly.

"I heard."

They regarded each other silently for a moment. Dean felt the tension in the room. He glanced at Sam who was staring very hard at a spot on the carpet.

Sighing, he looked back at the women. "Chick-flick moments are okay for, y'know, _chicks_," he said.

Kat's chuckle was watery and she blinked over at him, then back to her aunt. Hesitantly, she reached out, grasping Sophie's upper arm. Sophie touched Kat's cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear. Kat's chin trembled and Sophie pulling her in close, hugging her tight.

"This is so weird," Kat said, tears in her voice. She didn't let go of Sophie.

Sam grinned, glancing at Dean.

Dean rolled his eyes. "God, kill me now," he muttered.

A low moan was heard from the kitchen and Dean turned toward it. Sam clamped a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

"I, uh, hate to break this up, but," Sam glanced into the kitchen, "we need to call the police about Rena."

Kat pulled away. "I don't think Sophie should stay here, either."

"I agree," Dean said, nodding. Sam dropped his hand when Dean made no further attempt to head into the kitchen.

"Whoa! Since when did everyone start making plans for me?" Sophie raised her hands.

"It's not safe here," Sam replied. "Rudy knows too many hunters. Hunters like Rena."

"Rudy?" Sophie frowned at him. "Rudy my familiar Rudy?"

"He's the one that told Rena where Kat was… and then he called you…" Dean explained.

"That rat bastard," Sophie muttered darkly. "That means… he's the reason I have to have this damn music playing all the time."

"Yep," Dean nodded.

"Come stay with me," Kat said suddenly.

"What?!" Sophie looked at her, shocked. "Kat, you don't realize—"

"What's to realize?" Kat retorted. "You get a night job, sleep during the day. And you can't die. Believe me, in my line of work, that's music to my ears."

"Uh, Kat," Dean shoved his right hand into his coat pocket, his left arm pulled up close to his side in an unconscious gesture of protection. "There's something you might not be thinking about…"

"Blood supply?" Kat asked matter-of-factly.

Dean blinked. "Yeah, actually."

"Dean, I'm a nurse, remember?"

Sam huffed out a laugh, looking over at Dean. "Takes care of that, I guess."

"We'll handle Rena," Sophie said, glancing into her kitchen.

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Sophie raised her hand. "By calling the cops, I mean. You've done enough."

"Yeah, and," Kat said, walking over to Dean with a concerned frown. She touched his left arm carefully, "you have some healing to do. Those wounds need regular cleaning and you need _rest._"

"I'll be fine," Dean muttered, stepping away from her hand.

Kat pulled her eyebrows together. "Maybe. _If _you rest, keep your wounds clean, and keep this one wrapped with burn cream."

Dean opened his mouth to protest the attention and Kat laid cool fingers over his lips, silencing him. She looked over to Sam.

"He look like he's dead on his feet to you?" she asked.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, shifting his eyes between Dean and Kat.

"You have any luck talking sense into him?" Kat dropped her hand, rotating to face Sam.

"Hey!" Dean protested. "Right here, people."

Sophie lifted an amused eyebrow. "Join the club."

"I'll watch out for him," Sam said softly, his dimples showing as he smiled at Kat. He reached out to shake her hand. "Thanks for doing what you did," he jerked his head toward Dean. "He can be a pain in the ass sometimes."

Dean frowned, but said nothing.

She smiled at Sam, gripping his hand. "Thanks for saving my life," she replied. "And now I think I have to go rent that butterfly movie."

"_Papillon_," Dean and Sam said together.

"Right. That."

Kat stepped toward Dean, and his lips relaxed into a smile. She grinned back, reached up to touch his cheek, and kissed him lightly. He blinked in surprise, watching her face as she backed slowly away.

"Take care of yourself, Dean."

"Yeah, uh… you, too."

Kat glanced over at Sophie, whose gray eyes were pinned on Dean.

Dean looked at Sophie. "Your bike's at the Sleep Easy, edge of town."

She nodded. "Better be in one piece."

"Beautiful machine like that? Wouldn't dream of anything less," Dean said. He glanced down, then, keeping his chin lowered, lifted his eyes to hers. "Pastor Jim was right, y'know."

Sophie pulled her eyebrows together. "'Bout what?"

"He knew which evil to get rid of," Dean pulled his bottom lip in, tipping his chin toward the dark, knife-laden jacket on the couch behind her. "Maybe the crosses aren't… y'know… needed anymore."

Sophie swallowed and looked down. "Fifty years is a long time, Dean."

Dean lifted a shoulder, ignoring Kat's confused glance and Sam's narrowed eyes. "Maybe it's been long enough."

Sophie took a breath, lifting her eyes to his face, shifting them to Sam. Dean looked at Sam, who returned his glance with a raised eyebrow. Dean could see the questions lurking in his brother's eyes and he offered him a crooked grin. _It's okay, Sammy… I got this._

Something subtle shifted in Sam's easy eyes and Dean watched as his shoulders relaxed, his smile accepted, and he nodded quietly. Dean looked back at Sophie.

"Your own kind of normal, huh?" she asked.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. It works. Most days."

Sophie nodded, looking down, then rubbing at her bottom lip with slim fingers. They waited a beat, but when she didn't say anything else, Sam glanced once at Dean, shrugged, then turned to the door. Not willing to allow too much distance to come between them, Dean moved to follow.

"Dean, wait," Sophie called him back. He turned and watched as she went to her window, pulling down one of the papers. "I want you to have this one."

He looked down at the passage, then frowned. "Why?"

Sophie shook her head. "I don't know, really. Something just tells me it will mean something to you."

Dean pulled up one corner of his mouth in a grin. "Thanks."

His eyes shifted to her mouth once more, then back to her eyes. She watched him. He reached out his right hand, trailing two fingers through the thick, dark tresses of her ponytail as it lay across the front of her shoulder. He twisted his fingers in it briefly, pulling her slightly closer to him. She met his eyes, taking in the cuts on his forehead, the curve of his mouth, then pressed the palms of her hands on the sides of his face.

Dean lingered one moment more, watching, wanting… then let her hair slide between his fingers, dropping his arm to his side. She ran her thumbs softly along the curve under his eyes, then lowered her hands.

"You gonna be okay?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

Sophie glanced once back at Kat. "Yeah," she nodded. "I think so."

Dean pivoted to the open door.

"See you," she whispered as he stepped away.

Dean nodded, silently following Sam out of the apartment.

"You want me to drive?" Sam offered as they crossed the street toward the Impala.

Dean shook his head.

"You sure? You look—"

"I need to, Sam," Dean interrupted, rubbing his thumb over the paper Sophie had given him and reaching for the door handle.

Sam jogged around to the passenger side of the car.

"What does it say?" Sam asked as they closed their doors in unison.

Dean handed him the paper, firing up the engine.

"It's in Latin," Sam said.

"You're kidding," Dean dead-panned, glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eyes.

"If you believe it will be true, this will save you when debts come due," Sam read. "Bring with you the only one who stood beside you when life was done."

Sam looked at Dean, question marks in his eyes. "What the hell?"

"You got me," Dean said. Sam folded it up and handed it back to him.

"Put it in the glove box," Dean said as he slowly pulled forward to a stop sign, then paused.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Out of all of us, that glove box is the only thing that's made it in one piece over the last two years."

"Try twenty-three," Sam said, grinning. He put the paper in the glove box, then leaned back, stretching his arm across the back of the seat. "Wanta get some food?"

"Hell, yeah," Dean grinned. "That's the best idea I've heard in two days."

"Where do you want to go?" Sam asked, looking out of the passenger window.

"Uhhh…" Dean said, looking out of the driver's window.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you even know where we are?"

"Not really," Dean chuckled, turning right and merging onto the highway.

Sam laughed. "It's good to have you back, man."

"I wonder what Dad would have thought about what we just did," Dean mused, reaching for the radio.

"Letting a human girl become roommates with a vampire?"

"A vampire with a soul," Dean corrected.

"He would have…" Sam sighed. "Hell, I don't know. Since Lenore… since Gordon… it's all inside out, isn't it?"

Dean nodded.

"But no matter what Dad would have said or done," Sam watched as Dean spun the radio dial. "We did the right thing."

"You sure?" Dean stopped turning the dial when a station came in.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam nodded. "Evil's all over the place. But… so is good."

_"Sometimes the things I say, in moments of disarray, succumbing to the games we play to make sure that it's real…"_

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Dean said, sitting back, wrapping his fingers around the steering wheel. "I guess I just… for a little bit there, I forgot that we were alone, y'know?" He sighed, rubbing his temple. "I forgot a helluva lot."

"We're not alone, Dean," Sam said softly, pulling his arm from the back of the seat and dropping his hands into his lap.

_"When it's just me and you, who knows what we could do, if we can just make it through the toughest part of the day…"_

Dean glanced at him.

"We got each other," Sam said, smiled a bit sadly and looked over at his brother. "I mean, right?"

_You gotta save your brother, Dean… you're the only one who can. If you don't save him… you'll have to kill him…_

"You bet your ass we do."

"Besides," Sam said, looking back out of the passenger window as the lights from the highway ticked by. "You remembered the most important thing."

"Black coffee? Metallica?"

"How to find your way home."

www

a/n:

**Songs (in order of appearance):**

Metallica/Bob Seger: _Turn the Page_

Snow Patrol: _Make This Go On Forever, _and_ In My Arms_

Staind: _Everything Changes _

_**Papillon**_ is a 1973 film based on the autobiography of Henri Charrière. The film was directed by Franklin J. Schaffner and starred Steve McQueen as Henri Charrière (Papillon) and Dustin Hoffman as Louis Dega.

_Thank you so much for joining me on this journey. I sincerely hope that you've enjoyed the ride and I thank you all so much for your comments._

_Starting very soon, a story that I'm co-writing with a fantastic author named __**Sojourner84 **__will begin posting. It is called "__**Sunday, Bloody Sunday**__" and will post under Sojourner's name on fanfic[dotnet. We'll be posting it under my name on supernaturalville[dotnet. __The story is set very soon after the close of Season 2 with the release of the Hell's Gate Demons and will take the boys on an investigation through humanity's psyche… forcing them to face their own mortality. Should you choose to read, we hope you enjoy._


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